But I Don't Know You, Monsieur!
by Ms. SpearBourne
Summary: What if Christine had been more adamant in her assertion that she didn't remember Raoul? What if the Christine you thought you knew was just another mask? Leroux-based, but forget everything you thought you knew. /image credit goes to bebiiliiciious of glitter-graphics/ Finally complete!
1. Chapter 1

_**I'd had this up before, but I got frustrated when I couldn't figure out where to go with the story and took it down. I've no idea how often I'll be able update this. Leroux-based, but . . . done my way, which means . . . anything goes where my twisted mind is concerned. Bwahahaha!**_

_**What if Christine had been more adamant that she did not remember Raoul? How much would change? That's all I can say for now without giving away spoilers.  
><strong>_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own The Phantom of the Opera (but don't we all wish we did? Haha.) I am eternally grateful to Monsieur Gaston Leroux for sharing the bizarre story of Erik with the world and giving me the inspiration for so many stories and poems. I make no money from this silly little story (too bad, too. If fanfiction paid the bills, I might be rich by now! Ah, well, there's Helium.)**_

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><p>"But I don't know you, monsieur," Christine Daae insisted for the tenth time.<p>

Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, the man into whose arms so many women would gladly swoon, was stunned into silence. When, at last, he'd recovered his wits, he began sputtering about the red scarf she'd lost in the sea. "How could you have forgotten me? How could you forget those days we spent playing and promising to love each other and marry when we were older?"

"Love? You speak to me of _love_, monsieur?" She was shocked at his brazenness in front of the doctor and the maid. "Tell me, Monsieur le Vicomte, if you loved me all those years ago, where have you been all this time? Why were you not at my father's funeral just last year? No," she waved her hand dismissively, "do not attempt to justify your complete absence from my life all this time. Just . . . leave me in peace. If you insist on thinking of me as your childhood playmate, I can't convince you otherwise. But please leave. And do not seek me out again."

Mademoiselle Volanges escorted the dejected young man to the door.

"Please," he began, "I will write a letter. May I give it to you later for you to deliver to her?"

"I am sorry, monsieur, but the lady has spoken. She does not know you, nor does she wish you in her presence. Good night, Monsieur le Vicomte." With that, she shut the door softly but firmly in the young man's face.

"Merci, Mlle. Volanges," Christine called from her spot on the sofa. "What is your prognosis, Doctor?" she asked of the bespectacled and bearded man checking her pulse again.

He released her hand and smiled. "You appear to be in perfect health, Mlle. Daae. All the excitement of your first starring role simply overwhelmed you, I'm sure. Get some rest and I shall see you tomorrow to see how you are doing."

"Merci beaucoup, Doctor. Will you see Madame Valerius tonight?"

"Oui."

"Will you tell her that I shall be staying here tonight? I'm sure she will understand." _'She knows about my Angel of Music. And, if the doctor tells her what happened earlier, she will see why I chose to stay with my Angel for the night.'_

"Yes, of course, Mlle. Daae." Doctor Vronsky took his leave of her then.

"Will there be anything else, Mlle. Daae?" young Mlle. Volanges inquired.

"Perhaps some tea? After that, I will retire for the night."

Volanges rushed to fetch the tea then bid the up-and-coming diva "Bon nuit."

A voice sighed from all around Christine.

"Is that you, Voice?" she called tentatively. _'Of course; who else _could_ it be?'_

"I am here, Christine," the Voice responded. "Who was that boy that was with you earlier?"

"The boy? Oh, just someone I knew long ago. But I sent him away by telling him he was mistaken."

"Why did you lie to him?" the Voice asked sadly and softly.

Christine hesitated. "Because . . . I did not wish to . . . He wanted me to remember things . . . He wanted things to be as they were. But I have changed since he knew me."

"Changed? How, Christine?"

"Well . . . I am no longer the silly little girl without a care in the world. I won't play at being sweethearts as I did then. I am an opera singer, not a child singing with her papa," she concluded wistfully. _'I am also not so silly that blind faith would have me believe you to be a supernatural being.'_

"You miss your father very much, don't you, child?"

"Yes. Every day. Tonight I sang for him as much as for you!" _'But what kind of loving Creator would have made my father suffer as he did?'_

"I know. That is why your voice soared as an angel's tonight! Will you promise me something?" he asked abruptly.

"Anything, Voice! I will promise you anything if it means you will stay!"

"You must not give your heart to anyone on earth, for if you do, I shall have to leave you forever!"

"Angel, please! Don't say such things! I have no interest in giving my heart to anyone . . . except you, if you were a man," she added softly. She realised how silly and futile it was to be in love with a bodiless voice, but she could not help what she felt. If she asked him to reveal his true identity, would he do it for her? Did he love her like that?

"Oh, Christine," he moaned. "If I were a man, simply an ordinary man, would you love me?"

"Oh, yes, Angel! I would!" she swore vehemently. _'Please, show yourself to me.'_

"You have pleased your angel. You should rest now. Bon nuit, Christine."

"Bon nuit, Voice," she echoed. _'If this _**Angel of Music**_ demands my complete loyalty, then that is what he shall have! There will be no other for me until the Angel can become a man.'_

With that matter settled for her, Christine drifted off into the most pleasant dreams of what her heavenly teacher would look like once he became "simply an ordinary man," as he put it.

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: Don't shoot me! I just had to make her . . . less naive, more rooted in reality . . . It'll make a little more sense as the story progresses. Just . . . don't make any presumptions about . . . well, anything. *le sigh*_**


	2. Chapter 2

**_Hehehe, I love reading the reviews/feedback!_**

_**Jess, yeah, that's going to be . . . haha, interesting for me to write when I get there!**_

_**LadyCavalier, all I'll say about that is, erm, I wasn't even going to go into depth about Christine's faith, whatever it may be (I'm just using Leroux for inspiration, after all), so I'll just say that whatever faith she may have, it's not blind and my Christine is more . . . grounded in reality, I guess you could say.**_

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><p>Raoul paced the rooms of his flat. How could she not remember him? She had said she would love him always! He still had the same fair hair and clear blue eyes of his youth. She <em>had<em> to remember their days by the sea! And all the trouble he went to fetching her red scarf from the sea!

But she had laughed - _laughed_ at him when he brought up their shared history! And she'd admonished him for having not been there for her all those years.

Well, he supposed she had a point there. He _should have_ been the one on whose shoulder she'd cried when her father had taken ill and died. He _should have_ been more steadfast in his devotion. He _should have_ kept in contact with her all these years.

He sighed wearily. There was no changing the past. He'd simply have to show her that he truly did love her! True, it had been many years since their days in Bretagne, but this was _real love_, the kind that lasted forever! This was -

His elder brother, Philippe, entered carrying two goblets of deep red wine. "Something troubling you, little brother?" he asked as he handed off a glass.

"Hmm, just . . . Do you remember that summer several years ago? We took a holiday by the sea and I got drenched fetching a red scarf for a young Swedish girl."

"Oh, yes, I believe I do! You were ill for nearly a week! Oh, you gave us all a fright that summer! That's why we never returned there! We couldn't very well have you running into the sea to fetch scarves for all the pretty young maidens, now, could we?" he teased.

"Yes, well, that young Swedish girl has become an opera singer. She had her first lead role last night - yes, that was her, don't look so disbelieving! - and she fainted at the end of her performance. I went backstage to her dressing room and she was fine - the doctor was tending to her, as well as her maid. When I reminded her of our days as sweethearts, she - she laughed at me!"

Philippe could only laugh himself, now, at his younger brother's naive foolishness. "Oh, dear little Raoul! Did you really expect her to recall such an event? It was so long ago! I dare say it had more of an impact on you than on . . . anyone else. Just forget your little baggage and come out with me and Sorelli tonight. I'm sure she can find a friend for you," he promised with a wink. '_Poor boy needs to learn about the reality of women, and fast, before one has him wound about her little finger and has him traipsing about like a fool!'_

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><p>Christine returned to the flat she and Madame Valerius called home.<p>

"And your good genius, dear? Did your angel remain with you last night after you fainted?" the widow queried over her bowl of vichyssoise.

"Oh, yes, Mama. Even after a young man barged into my dressing room!"

"Ah, Dr. Vronsky told me about that!"

"Was I wrong, Mama, to tell him that I did not know him? The Angel - he asked me who the boy was, and I told him the truth, that I really _did_ remember those days by the sea, but . . . but that things had changed since then."

"Well, of course, things have changed, my dear. Nothing stays the same," she reminded her gently. "We don't remain the same people over the years, or even day to day. Just think of the girl you were three months ago and the young woman you are now! So much has happened in such a short span of time."

Christine sighed contentedly. "You are right, Maman, of course. And the Angel did say that I must not give my heart to anyone on Earth. If I were to do that, he would have to leave me forever! I couldn't bear that." _'And I want him to reveal his true identity to me soon. That will make me happy. But I must keep up this pretence of believing him to be a heavenly messenger until then.' _She chuckled silently to herself.

They finished their lunch in comfortable silence, each woman lost in her own thoughts of men they loved but could not embrace.

Soon after their midday meal was concluded, Christine returned to the opera house for another gruelling afternoon of rehearsals. Despite the previous night's success, she was still seen as nothing more than a ballet rat and a chorus girl! But she could live with that for now. The new managers had heard her sing and would allow her to audition for other parts in the future. She just had to be patient.

Besides, they were _all _afraid of La Carlotta and her temper!

From up on the catwalk, a dark figure kept watch over the ballet rehearsals. He wondered why Christine seemed so content this afternoon. He would have to ask her about that at their next singing lesson.

* * *

><p>"You seemed distracted during rehearsals this afternoon, Christine," the Voice chided.<p>

"Oh, I . . . simply had something on my mind, Voice. I had a good talk with Maman Valerius over lunch today," she admitted.

"And what did you speak of?" he asked lightly, his curiosity growing. He nearly dreaded her answer.

"I told her about the boy who was here last night . . . And what you said."

"What did I say?" he asked casually. He told her so many things, it was difficult for him to know what she might have told the old woman.

"That you would leave me forever if I dared give my heart to any man on Earth," she reminded him sadly. "And I told her I couldn't bear it if you left me!"

"Calm your fears, child. You need not fear that. I am here now. Perhaps, one day, Christine, if . . . Perhaps, the day will come when I can show you my face," he murmured.

Christine's ecstasy at this announcement was evident on her face. _'I knew it, I just _knew_ he had to be a man! He will show himself to me soon! But will I have to go on pretending he is an angel once he does? Or will he admit to the ruse?'_

"Sing for me, Christine," he urged.

She spent the next hour lost in song and wondering how long it would be before she would see the man that owned such a beautiful voice.

* * *

><p>Erik leaned against the back of the mirror in amazement after their lesson had concluded. She wanted to see him! She wanted her Angel of Music to be a man that she could love! Did he dare let himself be known to her? If she saw his face, would she still feel the same way about him?<p>

No, he would not let his hopes rise like that! What angel could love a demon such as Erik? Better to keep things the way they had been for the last three months. He would teach her and train her voice, and she would be his willing student.

Then, the sickening thought of that boy entered his mind. What if he persisted? He was handsome, rich, and titled. He had known his precious little Christine as a girl, and now the boy had seen the lovely woman she was blossoming into. Who could resist such charms? If he remained at the opera, as he was sure to do as he and his brother were patrons, would he continue to call on Christine?

How long would it be before she succumbed to the honeyed words of the insolent fop? Erik considered the actions he could take. He could cause an unfortunate accident. No, Christine would blame the Phantom, and she would never forgive Erik when she discovered that her Angel of Music, Erik, and the Phantom were all one and the same!

Oh, no, Erik would simply have to remind the pretty little Swedish songbird where her loyalties should be if it seemed she might stray! Yes, she would remain his. He would make her see that she could love him. His new mask was almost perfected. With that mask, he would look like an ordinary man.

Then she would not care if he were hideous, the very image of Death! She would love him, _him_, and all he had done for her. Then, perhaps, she would become his living bride! And they could go out on Sundays like any other couple.

Oh, how different Christine was from the only other woman Erik had felt such affection for! Christine's skin was so pale, like porcelain, and her hair was as brilliant as the midday sun! She was so unlike Anahita in every way! Anahita's hair had been a lustrous blue-black, dark as the midnight sky, and her skin was . . . so golden from her time in the sun. And her eyes! Those eyes, like the dark depths of a glass of ratafia de cassis!

She . . . Anahita had been his dark angel, his angel with the midnight hair! At least he'd been able to get her out of Persia before he'd fled. His poor dear . . .

But Erik could not think about the past now. He needed to move forward. He had a diva to train!

* * *

><p>Christine checked her hair and make-up in the mirror yet again. For some reason, she was more nervous to be in the ballet tonight than she had been to perform the lead in Faust the week before. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and adjusted the straps of her costume.<p>

Knowing that the Man with the Voice was going to be watching was making her shaky. La Sorelli came up behind her to check her own costume in the mirror.

"There's no need to be nervous, Christine! You've always been a good dancer," she reminded her.

"Thank you. I could never be as good as you, of course!" Christine wasn't sure if the prima ballerina was simply being reassuring or sarcastic, but she had to play along and let her think she was still the shy, naive girl that everyone thought she was.

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><p><em>*Ratafia is a liqueur or cordial flavoured with peach or cherry kernels, bitter almonds, or other fruits. Cassis refers to the blackcurrant. Creme de cassis, first produced in 1841, has replaced ratafia de cassis due to potential for toxicity as peach and cherry kernels contain high levels of hydrogen cyanide.<em>


	3. Chapter 3

**_Thanks for the feedback! I'm glad you're enjoying this as much as I'm enjoying writing it! Ah, writing is food for my soul . . . Hm, I guess I have that in common with Erik . . . getting lost in composing . . . *le sigh*_**  
><em><strong>Reverend Squid: Yup, Leroux's Christine was . . . kinda bland to me, so I decided to give her little shot of . . . backbone, as you said. :)<strong>_  
><em><strong>StrawberryStoleYourCookie: Thanks! That's always nice to hear! :)<br>LadyCavalier: Ah, yes, façade . . . masks . . . Yes, sing! Erik commands it!  
><strong>_

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><p>. . . she had to play along and let her think she was still the shy, naive girl that everyone thought she was.<p>

As the curtain rose for the final act of the night, Christine briefly wondered what other people thought of her. She knew Maman Valerius still saw her as a young girl, as her daughter, and would always remain concerned for her happiness and well-being. Meg Giry, daughter of the concierge, surely couldn't still think of her voice as sounding like a rusty hinge, could she? No, not after her performance in Faust! And what of the other dancers and chorus singers? Christine had kept herself so isolated and guarded that none of them really knew her at all.

She pushed the silly thoughts from her mind and concentrated on her movements. She knew that the Vicomte was in attendance tonight; she could only hope that he would not attempt to gain an audience with her again tonight. No, she could not bear the thought of her teacher becoming jealous and leaving her . . . or worse.

* * *

><p>Erik watched from his usual spot in Box 5. Christine's movements were flawless! Yes, she had come far under his tutelage, and her dancing reflected her new confidence and the exuberance of her spirit. He took such pride in his little protégé that he nearly missed noticing the Comte and Vicomte de Chagny sitting in another box, enraptured by the dancers on-stage.<p>

But only just nearly.

Erik pondered how he could scare this insolent boy away from Christine. A note might suffice, a simple warning that she was not free to give her heart away, that she was loyal to one master and one master alone, a notice that she would not be courted by the likes of a fop such as he! Yes, this Raoul would stay away from the Swedish songbird, and Christine would love Erik.

_'Love,'_ he thought. _'Love can inspire men to madness. But it can also inspire great genius.'_

He recalled the first time he had met Anahita. _'Anahita of the midnight moon,'_ as he'd called her. She had been taken by his music as he'd played his compositions for her during his time in Nizhny-Novgorod. Ah, the happy times they had shared after the crowds had left the fair! She had not cared about his skull-like visage or the horrors of his past; all that mattered to her was the way he sang to her and the way she felt in his arms when they danced.

But their idyllic romance was cut short by that damned furrier who had kidnapped her and taken her to Persia. The only reason he had not promptly killed the fool was because -

Erik's focus returned suddenly to the aria that had begun being sung. He could strangle that woman for mangling such a beautiful composition! He took a deep breath. In time, Christine would be the diva he needed her to be. Perhaps he would show himself to her. But that day would not be soon.

He would have to wait until he was sure Christine was ready to accept him as the man he was.

* * *

><p>After the opera had concluded, Raoul did indeed attempt to visit Christine in her dressing room. Mlle. Volanges, however, refused to allow him to get past her and into the dressing room.<p>

"Please, I just want to apologise to her for my brazenness the other night," Raoul implored.

"I am sorry, M. le Vicomte. Mlle. Daae will see no-one this evening. And, even if she were, she does not wish to see _you_. It would be . . . inappropriate for you to be here . . . especially without a proper chaperone." Mlle. Volanges felt an odd sense of satisfaction in turning away the infatuated young nobleman and closing the door, once again, firmly in his face.

"Who was that, Mlle. Volanges?" Christine called from behind the screen.

"It was the young man from the other night, from the night you performed in Faust."

"Did you send him away?"

"Per your instructions, Mlle. Daae."

"Good, good." Christine sighed in relief and emerged from behind the screen wearing nothing more than her dressing gown. She crossed to her vanity table and lifted a small envelope. "I will need you to take this to Mme. Valerius. I want you to deliver it to her yourself and tell her that I will be remaining here for the next night or so. And please tell her not to worry. I will return to the flat when my lessons are over. She will understand."

"Mais bien sur, mademoiselle. I will take this to her."

"Wonderful! Now that I know that's taken care of, help me with my dress." Together, they made quick work of the laces and layers, then Christine sent the younger woman off to Mme. Valerius's.

"Voice?" she called out tentatively as she locked the door. "Are you here?"

"I am here, Christine," Erik's voice resonated from all corners of the room. "Are you ready for your lesson?"

Christine didn't stifle her grin. "Yes, of course. I am yours for the entire night. I sent word to Maman Valerius that I would remain here again tonight." Once he began coaching her singing, she allowed herself to become so lost in their shared song that she didn't notice the insistent knock at the door or the voice that implored her to grant him entry.

But Erik heard it. Knowing that Christine was hypnotised by his melodic voice, he beckoned to her to approach the mirror. "Perhaps, tonight, one of your greatest wishes will be granted," he sang to her.

Somewhere in the back of her music-addled mind, she knew that this was a man luring her to his domain, but in her heart, she knew he was the Angel of Music about to bring her with him to Heavenly bliss. As she passed effortlessly through the looking glass, she bid a silent farewell to the girl she had been before and prepared for the turn her life was about to take.


	4. Chapter 4

As he guided her down the corridors, past old pieces of scenery, Erik feared she would come out of her hypnotic stupor and try to head back the way they came. His only worry was that she would get lost and hurt herself if she did so.

Christine, however, seemed content to follow where he was leading her and trust that he would protect her from any dangers they might encounter along the way. Even though he had been deceiving her these past few months, something inside her said that she would be safe with him. He had never been cross with her, never forced his way into her dressing room (but there was no telling if he might have spied on her!), and, so far, he had only held her hand firmly so she would remain close in the darkness.

Christine was so lost in her own thoughts that she nearly stumbled on the hem of her dress, but Erik's fast hands caught her before she fell.

Blushing furiously, she sputtered, "Merci, monsieur," before he set her on her feet again. "Monsieur?"

"Oui, Christine?" he responded, dreading what she might be about to ask him.

"What may I call you? I mean . . . It feels awkward to continue to call you Voice. Have you a name that I may call you?"

Erik sighed, bemused. "You may call me Erik, my dear."

With a smile, she breathed out his name _Erik._

* * *

><p>After Christine had rested, Erik played for her one of his simpler compositions, and she gladly sang her part of the duet. He was so thoroughly lost in the song that he rose to walk towards her as he would if they were on stage.<p>

She was clearly mesmerised by the sound of his voice, by his words . . . He placed a hand upon Christine's waist, his eyes burning into hers, fire and water meeting in their locked gaze. Their voices mingled even more gloriously than they ever had before!

She lifted one hand to caress his face, his mask. She could almost believe that could fall in love with this man . . . if he would only be honest with her! There were things she knew he refused to tell her, so many questions he had yet to answer, so many more that remained unasked. All he had told her was that his name was Erik, that it was a name he had come upon "by accident," and that she must not remove his mask.

That was the stipulation that he had stressed. She would remain perfectly safe in his company provided that she never attempted to remove that black material covering his face.

Her curiosity, unfortunately, was getting the better of her the longer they held each other captive in that impassioned gaze. The lure of the forbidden was too much for her to resist.

As soon as the slip of darkness had been stripped from his face, she regretted her action.

Christine let out a blood-curdling scream -

And was awakened by Erik rushing into her bedroom. "Christine, _ange!_ What troubles you so, my dear?"

Quiet sobs racked her body as he whispered soothing sounds into her hair. "Oh, Erik!" she murmured at last. "Erik, mon ange, it was awful! I dreamed . . . I dreamed that I . . . removed your mask," she admitted feebly.

His heart sank.

"You were so _angry!_ You screamed all manner of things at me and . . . and . . . You moved so fast, I couldn't even see you! You were like a shadow among shadows. It frightened me so much!" With that, her tears began anew. She silently vowed that she would never lay a hand on that mask, no matter how much she wanted to see the face hidden behind it. She would prove herself trustworthy; then, perhaps, he would show her his face of his own accord.

* * *

><p>Erik contemplated Christine's dreamnightmare as he prepared a late supper for the two of them. She had been afraid of his anger, but she hadn't seen his face. '_A shadow among shadows, she said. Yes, I _have_ been a shadow living down here in the shadows,'_ he thought wryly. He knew that she could not possibly be ready to see his true face, not yet.

He had a funny feeling that she might be ready sooner than he'd anticipated, though. With a pensive sigh, he set out bread, cheese, fruit, and wine.

"What troubles you, Erik?" Christine ventured in between bites. _'He seems so lonely. Like I used to feel before he came into my life.'_

"Your dream," he admitted. "Do you often have nightmares?"

"Only sometimes. Do you?"

The room seemed to darken with her query. "Yes," was all he cared to say on the matter.

Despite her repeated attempts at conversation, she couldn't get him to say much about anything. She finally gave up when she realised how difficult it was for him to eat while wearing the mask; it wasn't impossible, just a bit of a hindrance when he had to keep adjusting it so it wouldn't fall off.

He sent Christine off to bed and made her promise she would remain in her room until he called her for breakfast in the morning. He would not admit to her that he had to head above ground to take care of business that could never be conducted during the light of day.

Once he'd returned from his nightly jaunt, Erik ventured a look into Christine's bedroom. She was fast asleep, as he'd hoped. How many times had he spent silent vigil behind the mirror, watching, keeping guard upon her slumbering form, ensuring that no lecherous stage-hand attempted to violate that pristine state?

Now, the only dangers to her were from himself . . . and his little secret in the locked room. But that room was well hidden behind a tapestry. The only other entrance was through his bedroom, and he had no intention of allowing Christine in there! At least, not any time in the near future.

* * *

><p>Christine couldn't sleep. She could hear Erik bustling about in the other rooms, and she wanted to talk to him, to ask him questions. But he'd said she'd had a long day and should rest. An exasperated sigh escaped her lips as she attempted to find a comfortable position. If she could fall asleep, even for a little while, maybe she could calm the erratic thoughts coursing through her mind and -<p>

The sound of her door being eased open nearly made her jump out of her skin! She heard a soft sigh from the doorway, but Erik did not approach her or even speak. She kept her breathing steady and slow as she tried to keep from appearing as nervous as she actually was.

'_Please, say something, Erik. Come in and talk to me. Let me hear your voice,' _she silently pleaded to him from her pillows. _'Just say anything and it will calm my excited heart!'_

Just as she was about to turn towards him and invite him to sit with her for a while, she heard the door shut. Why had he opened her door? Had he only wanted to make sure she was still there? Had he intended something to happen if he'd found her awake? How many times had he watched her sleep before? she wondered. And why would he do such a thing?

A hand fluttered to her forehead. _'More questions to keep me up all night. Is it even night? Or is it now morning? Does time even matter here?'_ She finally drifted off to sleep when she realised that she didn't care what time or even what day it was in the outside world; all that mattered to her now was her Erik.


	5. Chapter 5

_**This story just keeps calling to me . . . *le sigh* What control Erik holds over me . . .  
>Wow, I'm all verklempt at the response this story is getting! I wish I had more time to update this more often. There are so many plot bunnies hopping through my head (dark, fanged plot bunnies) that I wind up writing a bunch of stories at once. But I really want to just focus on a handful of them right now. Once I get my book published (or a lot more published online), I should have more time for fanfic.<br>Yeah, she managed to keep from taking off his mask. For now. That's all I'll say about that.  
>Hehe, I made Lady Cavalier's head explode from so much *squee* in the last chapter . . .<br>**__**  
>Okay, enough of that. Let's get back to the story! I think it's time for a little Maman Valerius and Raoul scene!<strong>_

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><p>The day after Christine had gone down to Erik's home, Raoul decided to seek out the one person who might be able to shed some light on why his old childhood sweetheart refused to acknowledge him.<p>

"Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte!" Madame Valerius greeted warmly. "Would you care to join me for tea?"

Raoul was taken slightly aback. "You - you do remember me, then?" After Christine's unceremonious dismissal (dismiss_als_, he should say), he hadn't expected the older woman to recall him.

"Oh, I know that you are the young man who insisted on seeing Christine Daae the other night. After she told me about that . . . incident . . . I had a feeling you might find your way here soon," she remarked slyly.

He smiled sheepishly. "Yes, well, Madame . . . When she refused to see me last night, I thought I might come here and offer her an apology."

"I shall be happy to relay the message to her."

"She's not here, then?" the disappointed noble asked as the maid brought in the tea.

"No, Monsieur. She has . . . her singing lessons," was all the old woman would tell him.

"Where?" he dared to ask.

"Why, with her good genius, of course! But it would not do for you to go seeking them out and interrupting such important matters, my boy. Christine has a great gift, and her father would not have wanted her to waste it."

"Nor would I, I assure you."

"So you _don't_ wish to court her?"

'"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I have such fond memories of her. I was rather hoping she would be here today so I could formally ask your permission, but, as she is elsewhere . . ."

"Oh, M. le Vicomte, I'm afraid you courting her would be out of the question! If she were to become your wife, her singing career would have to end. She does not desire that, I can tell you that much."

Raoul's mouth opened and shut several times. This was inconceivable! Was she really telling him that he - a _vicomte_ - was unsuitable as a suitor?

There was something else he had to know before he left. "Please, Madame Valerius, tell me one thing. Did she remember me? That night, after she performed at the gala, when I was in her dressing room, did she know who I was to her in her childhood?"

"Does that really matter?" Her face was blank as she regarded him across the room. She knew it didn't, but she also knew that it was better to quash any hopes he might still have been harbouring.

He sighed before admitting that it didn't. He took his leave of her and bid her a good day.

Mme. Valerius couldn't help but chuckle at how easy it had been to fulfil Christine's request of her!

* * *

><p><em>Beneath the opera house . . .<em>

Erik and Christine were, themselves, having tea at the same time Mme. Valerius and Raoul were having their little chat.

"Oh, Erik," Christine giggled. "Did you really think you could keep up that pretence of being _an angel_ forever? Did you really think me such a silly little girl that I would believe such a . . . fairy tale . . . could come true?"

"You did say it was your favourite," he countered from behind the mask that left his mouth unobscured.

"Yes, a lovely little story my father told me to help me sleep. When I was a _child._ He also told me of tomtes, and the prophecy of Ragnarok, and the resurrection of Lazar-"

Erik held his hands up with a smile. "All right, all right, point taken!" He chuckled. How _could_ he have thought that she would fall for such a ruse? "Tell me, Christine. Did you and your father regularly attend church services? I only ask in case you might like to attend the day after tomorrow."

She tilted her head, bemused. "We only really went to church because Papa was playing at the weddings. We were hardly religious, though he did teach me to read using a book of Scandinavian mythology as well as a Bible. And he did instil in me a deep reverence for nature and the beauty of song. You could say that music is my religion. Does that make sense?"

"Indeed. It makes perfect sense, my dear."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a few moments as she selected another pastry from the small assortment they'd gone up to purchase, together, that morning. Erik picked up Le Gaulois to peruse the day's news.

"Erik?"

"Hmm?" he replied without looking up from his paper.

"W- I was just wondering . . ." She was unsure if she should continue; she didn't want to anger him with her curiosity.

He lowered his newspaper to regard her face. Such consternation he saw there. She was too young to have her face scrunched up that way. "Yes? What is it, my dear? What troubles you so?" he prodded gently.

"That dream I had . . . Would . . . That is . . . I know you told me never to remove your mask . . . I wondered . . . Why?" she finally squeaked out.

He blinked at her in shock. Had he heard her correctly? He had known the subject would come up sooner or later, but he'd rather hoped he might have a way to explain it to her, a way that would sate her curiosity and quell any desire she might have to see his face.

"If you don't wish to discuss it, I will understand," she blurted as she returned her gaze to the scone she'd been nibbling at for the past ten minutes.

"It - I thought you might be curious about . . . it. You caught me off-guard; that's all. Are you sure you want to know?"

"Only if you wish to tell me," she replied, her eyes meeting his again.

"My face, Christine . . ." he sighed wearily. "My face has made me an outcast, so I keep it hidden from the cruel world. Even my own parents could not bear the sight of me. Please, Christine, promise me you will not ask to see what even they were loathe to look upon!"

He did not wait for her response; he swiftly rose from the table and immersed himself in composing for the rest of the afternoon.

Christine could not imagine parents being so horrid as not to want to look upon their own son's face. No matter what his appearance, she knew that any decent mother should love her child unconditionally. "I promise, Erik," she whispered, knowing he wouldn't be able to hear her. "I never would hurt you like that."

In between the notes flying from the organ, Erik's sensitive ears picked up the soft oath she'd uttered. "Oh, Christine, if only you knew," he murmured. "If only you knew what a monster I truly am!"

* * *

><p><em><strong>*le sigh* My characters take on a life of their own, so I just write what they tell me to write. There's no telling where this story will go or how long it will actually be once I'm done. *rose-shaped cookies for those brave enough to stick with us through to the end*<strong>_


	6. Chapter 6

"Erik?" Christine called timidly from the doorway.

It was several hours later, and he was hunched over the keys of his organ, still lamenting the cruel fate that had befallen him. He'd gone from hopeless despair that she would never love him, to anger that she had dared ask him about his mask, to mourning the love that he'd lost, to wondering if he could ever feel that way again. He didn't lift his head until Christine was kneeling at his feet, her small hand lightly upon his. He gasped at the contact.

She gazed up at him with such . . . Was it trust he saw in her clear blue eyes? Or was it only pity?

She lifted her other hand to his face but didn't dare touch his mask. The memory of that dreadful dream still haunted her. How she longed to tell him that things would get better! That he wouldn't have to be alone any more! She couldn't imagine her life without him in it, whatever that might mean. Even though she knew Erik wasn't an angel, she trusted that there was a reason their paths had crossed.

He had managed to help heal her heart. She wondered if she would have the strength now to heal his soul.

* * *

><p>Mme. Valerius went over Christine's letter to her again and chuckled lightly. That girl was far more intelligent than some had been happy to believe! She kept to herself, it was true, but only because she was guarding herself from becoming too close to someone who might up and leave her as so many had before.<p>

But, as she explained in her letter, it was time for her to grow up. The 'good genius' that had been helping her with her singing lessons had been nothing less than, for lack of a better term, a godsend, and she wanted to spend as much time with him as possible. She was certain he would show himself to her soon and give up the ruse of being the Angel of Music. He hadn't been sent down from heaven, of course, but he was so good to her that he might as well have been sent by her dearly departed father. Once he stopped pretending to be some supernatural being, there would be no going back to the way things had been before, and she wanted Maman Valerius to know this so she would not worry so much for her safety.

She also promised she would find a way to send word to her to let her know she was all right; in the meantime, could she take care of something for her? Could she discourage Raoul from seeking her out again if he happened by the flat?

Oh, it wasn't that Christine didn't like Raoul; she had fond memories of when they were children. It was just . . . she knew that it would be unseemly for a nobleman to pursue a chorus girl . . . especially if things with her good genius went the way she thought they might.

And there was the matter of the "Opera Ghost" to be concerned about. Who knew who that really was that had been extorting money from the managers for so long? With all the "accidents" that had happened, she didn't want . . . well, she didn't want to see anyone get hurt.

Mme. Valerius could understand that feeling very well.

* * *

><p>Erik and Christine had remained in the same position for several long minutes, with him seated and her at his feet. He was loathe to break the exquisite stillness, but he knew he should stoke the dwindling flames in the fireplace. He could not let his precious soprano catch cold!<p>

"Christine, you are shivering! Come, let us go to the settee so you can get warm," he insisted. He wrapped in her in a light blanket, despite her protests that she wasn't that cold, before turning to add a few logs to the fire.

Christine could only sigh. There had been so much she'd wanted to say to him, but, when she'd gazed into those golden orbs, she knew that any mere words she offered would not be enough to convey her meaning.

She would have to show him.

When Erik turned back around, he noticed that she was not sitting in the middle of the settee where he had placed her. She was off to one side and grinning up at him.

"You take such good care of me, Erik," she remarked fondly, even though he'd overreacted to her little shiver. She had only been overcome with emotion and his nearness! "Will you sit with me for a while?"

He crossed the room silently and perched himself on the edge of the settee. He sat there, as stiff as a board, until he felt Christine inch closer to him. Shyly, she reached for his hand again and laced her fingers with his. Once she felt him relax somewhat, she leaned against him ever so slightly.

Erik's head was swimming. Here he was, _Le Mort Vivant_, with this precious young woman holding his hand without fear or revulsion! He was having trouble catching his breath, and his heart was racing with nervousness. If she had any idea of the atrocities he'd committed throughout his wretched life, would she be so at ease with him?

Did he dare tell her and risk losing her forever?

* * *

><p>Later that night, after they'd had a rather quiet supper, Christine had asked Erik to tell her a story before bed. She wanted to hear something of his life before he'd begun giving her singing lessons.<p>

He shook his head, not to deny her request, but that she still seemed like a girl in so many ways. She still had that air of innocence that would have her ask him to stay in her bedroom without the slightest hint of impropriety on her part.

On _her_ part.

On his part, he knew the feelings it would stir in him. It wouldn't be proper. But, then, who was there to see them? He could simply keep his distance and sit on a chair a respectable length away from her bed.

"Ah, dear Christine, my life has been . . . the story of my life is not for your ears. Not yet, my beloved. But . . . I shall tell you a tale I heard many years ago from a woman I once knew." He proceeded to tell her of a princess whose beauty exceeded any that had ever been seen; she was gifted many jewels, even as a child. Men came from all over the empire to vie for her hand, wooing her with sonnets and extravagant offers. Alas, she was not to be swayed. Her heart was as a gem, as well, and she could feel no love.

But, one day, a man came from a far off land. He knew not the tales of men who had died of love for her. He had no inkling of the danger that might befall him if he dared approach the princess. Her other would-be suitors did not warn him that those who had failed in her challenges were put to grisly death. What did they care if there were one less among the competitors?

When the foreigner arrived at the castle gates, he was granted entry and an audience with the king and the princess. He wished only to offer his services to the court, if they be so desired.

The princess found herself intrigued by him and his exotic ways. His style of dress was like none she'd ever seen before, and his speech patterns and voice enticed her ears.

She posed a challenge to him. He would compose and sing a song for her, something that would encapsulate the entirety of the human condition.

He accepted the challenge, bowed, and proclaimed that it would be ready for her at the end of the third day hence.

What the princess had not known was that this man already had such a song. He only wanted the time so he could rest from his long journey and become accustomed to the local culture.

At the end of the third day, a guard was sent to the man's chamber within the castle. He was escorted with pomp and circumstance into the dining hall, where several instruments had been arranged, should he choose to use them.

He sat himself at the harpsichord and proceeded to play. He sang a rather simple tune about a child's love for his mother. It flowed seamlessly into a verse about falling in love for the first time and having his heart broken by the object of his affection when she decided his face was not handsome enough for her.

The princess, indeed, the entire court in attendance, was enraptured.

Though his song spoke of unbearable pain, there was still hope underneath it all. For every mistreatment he suffered, he maintained that same hope that people were good, that there were still those who saw beneath an ugly surface to find the beauty of the soul.

By the time his perfect voice faded into silence, the princess was openly weeping. Her heart now knew love. She decreed that none in her father's kingdom would ever go hungry again, and that this foreigner would be afforded anything he so desired.

All he wanted, he stated, was to be allowed to sing to her.

"That's a lovely story, Erik," Christine remarked dreamily. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

Erik took a deep breath before speaking. "Yes, I dare say it _is_ lovely. It was my pleasure to tell it to you. Good night, Christine." He rose to return to his room.

"Erik?" she called frantically.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Won't you stay with me?"

"I . . ." How could he respond to that?

It didn't matter. She had fallen asleep by the time he'd crossed the room again. He lightly stroked the golden locks framing her serene face before rushing out to compose.

Once he was satisfied with the aria he would present to Christine later, he went to the mirror he kept in his room and pulled back the velvet drapes obscuring it. Cautiously, he removed his mask. He beheld his death's head, the sunken cheeks, the emaciated nose that looked like a gaping hole - oh, how he wished he could at least have had a nose that hadn't caved in on itself! - and the thin lips. Could he bring himself to let Christine see such a horrid sight?

* * *

><p>Christine couldn't manage to stay asleep for long. She could just barely hear the sound of the organ, which she followed down the maze of hallways. When she came upon the door, which had been left ajar, she didn't want to intrude on Erik's privacy. She shook her head to clear it of the music that had entranced her to come all this way. <em>'Foolish girl,'<em> she chided herself. _'Stop trying to force something to happen!'_

She turned to go back the way she'd come, but, as she did, she caught the briefest glimpse of the mirror. She was tempted to go back for a better look, but decided that she would only see what lay beneath Erik's mask when _he_ wanted her to, not a moment sooner.

She couldn't change the fact that she had, however briefly, seen a hint of his face reflected in the glass.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: The story Erik told Christine is something I loosely based on the opera Turandot. Very loosely.**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Hehehe! Me and my evil little cliffhangers! I just couldn't leave it like that for very long, so I'm giving you this tidbit - a page from Christine's journal.**_

_**None sorry: Thank you! I know what you mean.  
>Reverend Squid: That might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me about my fanfiction! You are too kind!<strong>_

_**And to think, this story came from one little line cropping up in my head . . . "But I don't know you, monsieur!" Where it came from, I don't know . . . I just go where the muse leads me.**_

* * *

><p><em>I can't believe I caught a glimpse of Erik's face! It wasn't much really, just one of his eyes and the hint of his cheek. His skin looked - I don't know how to describe it. Almost yellow, like aged paper. His eyes. Black. Inky. It's like two blotches of ink fell on parchment. Yet there was a hint of coppery rings in those eyes.<em>

_I don't even know what I'm saying. I just needed to commit this while my memory of the event is still fresh._

_His music hypnotises me in a way I cannot fight. But would I fight it if I could? I don't know. Ever since that first night when I heard his voice singing to me from the walls of my dressing room, I fell in love._

_Oh, I can't tell him that, of course, not yet. But I can show him that I care for him, that I appreciate all he's done for me these past three months. He's so good to me, taking care of me, escorting me in the mornings to go shopping a couple of times a week. I rather enjoy our little excursions. He gives me a few coins and lets me purchase whatever I want at market. We go early in the morning, so there's usually plenty for me to choose from._

_The only thing that bothers me at all is that he remains outside the store as I make my selections. Perhaps he does not wish to be seen with me? Could that be it? Is that why we go while shopkeepers are still setting out their wares and hardly anyone is about? Does he wish to keep this a secret?_

_Oh, I don't know what to think about all of this!_

_I did have a letter taken to Maman Valerius yesterday, just something to let her know that I am safe. With Raoul's attempts to see me again, I have a feeling he might seek her out to ascertain my situation. Why should he keep trying to - Oh, I suppose it doesn't matter much. He was simply someone I knew many years ago. We did not keep in touch. I suppose it might be nice to reminisce with someone who remembers my father, but it feels wrong, somehow, to think about spending time with a man other than Erik. I'm not even sure why that is._

_Erik knew about the letter, of course. I let him read it before we made our journey above-ground. He seemed almost relieved by it. I do not want him to think that I have anything to hide from him._

_Except for this. He must never know what thoughts have been coursing through my silly head! If he knew about this journal, he would know. And I can't let him know._

_Being here with him, just down the hall from his bedroom, makes me think, makes me wonder. But I must not think such thoughts! He has not even asked to court me! He would have to meet Maman first and procure her permission for such a matter. He hasn't mentioned anything of the sort to me, so I must keep myself from expecting . . . that._

_But how can I keep from hoping? He's so near, yet he seems so far away, an unreachable star that I long to touch._

Christine sighed and blew on the ink to dry it before putting her journal away in her wardrobe. She needed to get some rest. There were too many things she wanted to ask Erik the following day, and it would not do if she were tired during their lessons.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: A short chapter, I know, but what better way to understand Christine than in her own words? If it seems like she's rambling a bit here, that was my intent. Not to mention that I wrote this at three in the morning. Haha, but Christine was writing in her journal in the wee hours of the morning, too. Who needs sleep, right? *coffee*coffee*coffee*  
><strong>_

_**That mention of "coppery rings" is a reference to another of my phanfics, A Doctor's Thoughts, which is a little something I wrote because I kept wondering what might have afflicted Erik. (If/when I manage to put my fanfic site back up, A Doctor's Thoughts will be there. For the time being, it is unpublished.)  
><strong>_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Reverend Squid: Ah, yes. I felt like that would make an interesting little . . . impediment. Propriety and all . . . How **_**will**_** Erik deal with that?  
>Lady Cavalier: Now, now, I can't very well have heads exploding, can I?<strong>_

* * *

><p>The morning came - or was it afternoon? Christine had completely lost track of time by the time Erik called her for breakfast. She had slept only fitfully the last few nights after hastily scribbling in her journal yet again and she wasn't entirely sure she'd be up for another gruelling day of singing lessons. Erik was wonderful, but he was an extremely demanding taskmaster!<p>

On the other hand, if he had the slightest idea that Christine was not feeling well, he might insist she remain in bed or near the fire while he waited on her hand and foot. She'd managed to look refreshed and presentable, but he noticed that she seemed less . . . ebullient than usual. He resolved to let her rest a bit more today and take her for a walk in the evening.

"Christine, dear?" he asked as she dug into her ham and cheese omelette.

"Yes, Erik?" she responded, gazing up at him with wide eyes, her fork poised midway between her plate and her lips.

"I was thinking . . . Would you care to accompany me on a walk this evening?"

She smiled at him. "Yes, I would like that." _'It will be so nice to get out in the fresh air again!'_

_Her smile!_ It affected Erik in a way he could not explain. So rarely had genuine smiles been cast his way that he never knew quite how to react to them. He simply nodded and told her to finish her breakfast. He wondered if his playing had woken her or disturbed her sleep in the night. He would have to be more careful about that for the remainder of her stay with him.

They only spent two hours lost in music that day before Erik declared that he had business to attend to and that Christine should rest while he was gone.

* * *

><p>As he made his way up to the third cellar, he paused in the dimly lit corridor to consider the situation. How long might Christine be content to stay with him? She was a bit restless, but that could only be expected as her days were not filled with rehearsals now. She did not seem anxious to see other people, but he knew that she mostly kept to herself; she wasn't all that close to any of the other chorus girls.<p>

Still, he knew that she would enjoy the walk they would take that evening. She needed sunlight, fresh air, open spaces, the hustle and noise of other people. She was so unlike him; the bright light of day made him feel a bit ill, somewhat heady. He would endure that for her if it made her smile at him.

But he could not think of that now. He had to go see about his monthly salary!

* * *

><p>While Erik was gone - the first time she'd been alone in days - Christine busied herself with tidying up the kitchen. She found it oddly relaxing to do something so mundane; the very thought of that made her smile. She rather liked having someone to take care of. Oh, there was Maman Valerius, of course, but this felt comfortingly different.<p>

Once she was satisfied with how clean the kitchen and dining area were, she went to the sitting room, picked a book from the shelf, and sat in front of the hearth.

She hadn't realised she'd fallen asleep until Erik was looming over her. "Erik," she murmured drowsily.

"I am glad to see you took my advice to rest, my dear," he replied, reaching a hand forward as though to brush an errant lock from her eyes, but pulled back at the last moment.

She reached up to grasp his hand and gasped. He was not wearing his gloves, and his hands were dreadfully cold! She pulled him down to sit beside her and began rubbing his hands between hers, attempting to bring some warmth to them. Erik could only gaze on her in wonder. She was touching him! And she was not recoiling in disgust at the contact!

"Erik? Are you all right?" she asked with great concern.

He hadn't even realised he'd been shaking and crying. "Yes, Christine. You don't know what it means to me for someone to hold my hands and not be repulsed by them," he choked out.

She brought her hand up to caress his face, but she was very careful not to disturb his mask. How she wished he would trust her enough to let her see what lay behind that dark fabric!


	9. Chapter 9

_**I truly appreciate the feedback!**_

_**Eldunari Liduen: Yeah, poor Erik *sniffle* I **_**thought**_** I had read Kay's Phantom, but I was wrong; I read Kate McMullan's adaptation some twenty years ago. I did, however, find Phantom at the library and will be reading it at last! And I'm glad you liked that line so much! Nice little bit of WAFF, huh?  
>Elfinmyth: Hehehe! Yes, I'm pleased people are enjoying my Christine-with-a-backbone as much as I'm enjoying writing her!<br>StrawberryStoleYourCookie: Really? I hadn't considered that. The thought just popped into my mind so I added it. I think I was writing A Doctor's Thoughts right before that, so I had all those little 'clinical' details rattling around in my brain.  
>LadyCavalier: Yes, I astound <strong>_**myself**_** sometimes! Haha. And that scene will be . . . *ahem* what it will be. I know how you feel; apart from writing, I really have no life. Wait, maybe that helps my writing. Hmmmm . . .  
><strong>_

_**Hmm . . . I wonder how long I can keep this fic going . . . Hehe, I refuse to set a limit on the number of chapters I write, so we shall see, won't we?**_

* * *

><p>Erik and Christine's walk was quite uneventful. They had ventured a few blocks from the opera house to a street lined with quaint shops where no one would recognise them. Christine wore a cloak that covered her head and protected her from the cold and the late afternoon sun. No one stared or even gave them a second glance as they strolled past the dwindling crowds and paused to gaze into store-front windows.<p>

No one but one man, that is. Unbeknownst to them, there was one person who could not take his eyes off of them. He sat at a table, alone, in the shadow of a bistro on the corner of the street they had chosen. Every time Christine turned to her escort, he would pay particular attention to her expressions. _'Does she love him?'_ he wondered.

The more he watched them together, the more indignant he became. Every smile she bestowed upon the masked man sent daggers into him. Each time she eased herself closer felt like a slap in the face. Cool evening breezes were teasing a few stray locks of flaxen hair out of her hood. When Erik lifted a gloved hand to brush them back, the man examining all their actions could take no more.

He rose from his seat and hurried home so he could tell his little brother what his _precious_ would-be sweetheart Christine was up to these days.

Christine barely noticed the glare coming from across the street as Erik guided her back the way they had come. He pulled her into a doorway she might not have noticed and she was bombarded by a cascade of heavenly scents. As her eyes adjusted to the soft candlelight, she observed dark wood floors and a few small, sturdy tables graced with deep red tablecloths.

"Are you hungry, my dear?" he inquired.

"Oh, yes . . . Yes, I am," she admitted as she took the seat Erik had pulled out for her.

A woman a few years older than Christine came over, wiping her hands on a towel, and greeted Erik warmly. "Ah, Monsieur Utkin! How nice to see you again! And who is your lovely companion? I am Madame Fournier," she continued without waiting for Erik to introduce the two women.

"Madame Fournier, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am Mademoiselle Daae."

"Ah, but the pleasure is mine! It is so nice to see Monsieur Utkin come in with someone for a change," she remarked with a sly glance his way. "Now, what can I start you off with for supper? Perhaps something to take the chill off? I know Monsieur Utkin will have his customary piping hot tea with lemon."

"Tea sounds nice, actually," Christine replied with a smile. "She is quite sociable, oui, Erik?" she murmured after the dark-haired woman had scurried back to the kitchen. "She is not from around around here, though, is she?"

"Good ear, my dear. Madame Fournier is from Ireland. She married Monsieur Fournier and moved here to help him run this café; it's been in his family for many generations. They occasionally run errands for me, such as grocery shopping and fetching my suits from the tailor," he explained.

Christine didn't have a chance to reply to that as Madame Fournier brought the tea and a plate of cheeses and bread.

"We shall have the tartiflette tonight, madame," Erik informed the rosy-cheeked woman. "And a kouign-amman with chocolat chaud for dessert."

"Mais bien sur, monsieur."

There were few tables in the small dining area of the café, and Erik and Christine were the only two patrons there, so they were able to speak fairly freely without worry of who might overhear. Erik apparently trusted the Fournier couple enough not to remain silent the entire time they were there, but he was careful not to mention that Christine was a member of the opera company. He saw no point in taking the chance that the wrong person might walk in at an inopportune moment and overhear something they should not have.

Not that they spoke of anything of great import, but one could never be too careful. That was something Erik had learned when he was quite young. They ate their supper and made pleasant chit-chat, then lingered over dessert.

'_It is so good that he has found someone who loves him so. He's seemed so lonely the past few years. I am sure they will be quite happy together,'_ Mme. Fournier thought to herself. _'I'll just box up some brioche for them, along with some petits fours. The young miss certainly looks like she enjoys her pastry! Maybe she will encourage her monsieur to eat more, as well. She will be good for him; I can see that already.'_

"Erik? I was wondering . . ." Christine began.

"Yes, mon ange?"

"I was wondering if we might pay a visit to Maman? Even just a short one?"

"We could stop by her flat now, if you wish."

"Really? Oh, that would be wonderful! The two most important people in my life will finally meet!" she whispered excitedly.

There was that smile again, the smile he would do anything to see. The smile that made him forget all the anger he'd felt for cruel humanity, lo, his entire miserable existence. She made him want to forget about all the horrid things he'd done in his tortured past and begin his life anew, with her by his side . . .

After Erik had paid Madame Fournier and collected the box she'd prepared, he and Christine made their way to the flat that had, for so long, been home for her.

* * *

><p>"Ah, so <em>you<em> are Christine's good genius! It is a pleasure to finally meet you, monsieur!" Mme. Valerius gushed when they were all seated in the parlour.

Erik sat stiffly in his chair, his ungloved hands clutching at the armrests. "Oui, madame." He was terribly nervous about how to properly act in the company of a woman who could very easily persuade his dear Christine to abandon him forever.

"And . . . how are your singing lessons coming along, my dear boy?"

'_My dear boy?'_ he thought, bemused. "Christine is progressing beautifully," he remarked, causing Christine to blush modestly.

"Erik is a - a wonderful teacher, Maman. He has been very good to me, very patient," she glanced at him and gave him a reassuring smile, which he returned as best he could.

"Now, my dear boy, the only thing that concerns me about your relationship with my sweet little Christine is that you treat her well and that she is happy. I can see for myself that she is, but . . . just how long do you intend to keep her with you, monsieur?" Maman Valerius with mock sternness.

Erik did not hesitate in his answer. "Three weeks, madame, if mademoiselle is willing to tolerate me for that long," he returned playfully. "I am afraid, though, that she may tire of me before then."

"Oh, Erik! I could never tire of you!" Christine cried with a melodramatic fluttering of her eyelashes. "You are my angel of music!" Her time on the stage in opera bouffe served her well, and she enjoyed their silly banter. _'Three weeks? He wants me to stay with him that much longer? I thought, surely, he would have grown weary of me and my naivete by now. He truly _is_ a wonderful man!'_

With those pressing matters settled, the trio could savour the tiny bits of pastry and discuss the events that had transpired over the past week since Christine had gone to Erik's below-ground home.

Mme. Valerius had one more thing to tell them. "You were right, my dear girl, to worry about that vicomte coming around to inquire about you. But, don't you worry, I told him it would not do for him to interfere with your time with your teacher or your career."

Erik tried to hide his elation at this bit of news, but wound up emitting a hearty chortle nonetheless. Neither woman could fault him for it, and soon joined in. The very idea of a nobleman courting an opera singer? Ludicrous!

Once their laughter subsided, Erik noticed how late it was getting and remarked that perhaps Maman would like to get some rest.

"Oh, I dare say I should. I do have a rather busy morning tomorrow. Oh! Before you go, you should fetch your muff. You were not wearing your gloves when you arrived, Christine, and it _is_ turning colder," Maman chided gently.

"Yes, of course, Maman." She went off to fetch the item from her bedroom.

Maman leaned forward slightly, her voice lowered so Christine would not hear their conversation. "Now we can talk, just the two of us. What are your intentions, really, towards Christine?"

Erik cleared his throat nervously under her scrutinising gaze. "The truth, madame, is that I care deeply for her. I want only what is best for Christine."

"Yes, I can see that," she murmured. "What I wish to know is . . . Do you intend to court her?"

Christine returned before Erik could answer, though he did manage to give the slightest inclination of his head. He could only hope that the elder woman had seen the movement and understood that he did, indeed, intend to court her adopted daughter, if that was acceptable. They bid their farewells and promised to visit again in a few days' time.

The sun was setting, sending ribbons of colour across the sky. When Christine shivered from a particularly cold gust, Erik instinctively wrapped an arm around her to shield her from the wind. She leaned into him comfortably, a small grin upon her lips.

Erik didn't know what to think. Here he was, the orchestrator of so many tortures and deaths, with a sweet girl like Christine, and she showed no fear of him! How was this even possible? He knew he would have to show her his face - his hideous, corpse-like visage - eventually, but perhaps . . . perhaps she would learn to love him first? Was it so wrong to want to be loved for himself?

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Ack! Evil of me to leave it at that, I know! *hides in the fifth cellar*  
><strong>_

_**Utkin is a Russian surname from the word utka, which means duck. Yes, as in the birds that go "quack!" Hehehe.**_

_**Tartiflette is a French dish from the Haute Savoie region of France. It is made with potatoes, reblochon cheese, cream, and lardons.**_

_**Kouign-amann is a round crusty cake, made with a dough akin to bread dough with sugar sprinkled between layers. The resulting cake is slowly baked until the butter puffs up the dough (resulting in the layered aspect of it) and the sugar caramelises. It is a Breton dessert.**_


	10. Chapter 10

Erik mulled over Madame Valerius's words for some time after they had returned to the house by the lake. Here he was, well into the fifth decade of his life (or so he surmised, based on how old people had thought he was when he cared enough to start counting the passing years), and he was in love with a woman young enough to be his daughter! She'd be nineteen soon, if he recalled correctly.

Christine had buried herself in one of his books on architecture; she seemed to enjoy gazing at the sketches he'd drawn over the years of all the places he'd visited. Every few moments, he would hear her gasp in amazement or sigh with pleasure.

When he ventured past her to make some tea, he noticed that she was lovingly caressing the lines of a sketch he had drawn of a building in Nizhny-Novgorod. His breath caught in his throat. The building held special significance for him; it was to have been his house . . . the home where he had hoped to raise a family . . . had he and Anahita been able to marry . . .

. . . if he _ever_ came across that damned fur trader again . . .

"Do you like that one, Christine?" Erik whispered.

She emitted a startled gasp. "Oh!" she whispered back. "Yes . . . It's so lovely! I think . . . I should like to visit such a building as this someday."

"Perhaps, my dear, once the season is over . . . we might make a trip to Nizhny-Novgorod. We could go during the summer." If he had hoped to bring a smile to her face with that declaration, he failed. She frowned. "What troubles you, Christine?" He did not like to see her perturbed.

"It's . . . I'm not . . . troubled. You have thought that far ahead?" An odd look glazed her eyes. While she had been wondering about their next few weeks together and how soon he might tire of her, he was speaking of planning events that were still a good eight months away!

Did she dare allow herself to hope? Could she take the chance of letting herself start to truly love this man?

* * *

><p>They stayed up for a few more hours, sipping tea and talking about sights they could see along the road out of France, across Europe, and into Russia. With every city and town he told her they could stop in, she became more determined that she would be a good girl and not upset him. If she continued to please him throughout the ensuing months, and did all he asked, he would keep his promise to show her all the wonderful places he had been before he lived beneath the opera house in Paris.<p>

It all fascinated Christine so that she couldn't bear to be parted from Erik's side; she fell asleep holding his hands.

Erik's lips twitched at the sight of her slumbering form. He'd watched her sleep before, of course, but this was different. She looked peaceful and content, and he knew it was because of all his lavish promises of the beauty she would see on their journey.

Did he dare hope that she would remain loyal to him for so long?

* * *

><p>Erik awoke with a start. He'd not suffered any of the nightmares that were wont to plague his sleep. Gradually, he realised that Christine still had his spidery icy hands firmly clutched in her own. His hands hadn't known such warmth in so long . . .<p>

When he used to dance with Anahita, her hands were like a fire that tickled his with a pleasant heat; she made him feel as though there were nothing he could not do! He was good then, never harmed anyone with any of his tricks, and he only sought to give the people what they wanted. He was an entertainer in those days.

That was before he had been forcibly brought before the Shah and his favourite wife. The little sultana, as Erik had called her, had been so bored with the run-of-the-mill torture inflicted on political prisoners that she demanded some new form of _amusement_.

That damned furrier had already kidnapped his beloved Anahita, so Erik was perfectly willing to travel to find her. But he kept returning to Nizhny-Novgorod in case there were some word of her that had made its way back to the fair.

After nearly a year, the daroga showed up in Erik's tent. Even without his mask, he proved able to hide his true emotions. He acted aloof, as though he couldn't be bothered to go all the way to Persia just to entertain a bored monarch and his consort with his feats of legerdemain and ventriloquism.

And yet, the Persian man could sense something else behind Erik's carefully chosen words. He swore that, whatever reason he had for going with him to the Empire, it would remain a secret locked away in his soul, and the daroga would not betray him.

Along the journey, something happened, something that neither man would ever speak of again, but it was of such import that it bound the two in ways that no other could hope to fully comprehend.

Once they arrived in the court and presented themselves to the shah, Erik had a short time in which to prove himself and endear himself in whatever ways he could to him and his favourite. By day, he performed feats of wonder and of horror; by night, he would sneak about outside the palace and call for Anahita with the words that only she would recognise.

He feared that he had been wrong, that she had not been brought here, but taken to some other monarch in some other land. He despaired that he had failed her . . .

Until one night, he heard the plangent notes of the song that only one person besides himself had ever been able to replicate . . .

Oh, those rosy hours of Mazenderan! Anahita had been allowed a garden on her terrace, and she had a lovely little row of rosebushes growing there along the walls. The delicate rosewater that she was able to coax from those perfect petals was considered a treasure by the little sultana, and she was none too pleased to discover that one of her lowly servants should be so favoured by the man she had gone to so much trouble to have brought to her court!

It was for that very preference that Erik showed Anahita that she was tortured.

The little sultana had cruelly mocked him once, saying that a man who looked like a corpse deserved a corpse for a bride. He had refused to give in to one of her more wicked whims, and so she had lashed out at him with words, for she knew all too well that she could never harm him physically.

The daroga, though, owed Erik a debt of gratitude that he could never hope to repay, even if he lived another hundred years. They managed to smuggle the wounded and emaciated woman out of the city. She very nearly resembled a corpse, Erik had noted sadly as he had carried her out of the city.

Gone was the healthy glow and soft blush of her cheeks; she was now gaunt and sallow. The glimmer had left her eyes to be replaced with an unfocussed haze.

The trio fled on camels and ventured east. How they happened upon a tribe they could trust, he could no longer remember, but they had taken Anahita in as one of their own.

When the shah discovered that Erik was absent, he feared that his prized architect was sharing his secrets with the Empire's enemies! As soon as Erik returned to his place in court, it was ordered that his eyes would be put out. Unfortunately, the shah knew that Erik's genius was so great that he might be able to design other palaces with mazes and secret corridors, despite having no eyes to see their progress.

And so the daroga helped Erik yet again.

Erik roused himself from his tortured reverie and pried his hands from Christine's soft warmth. He needed to ensure that the water was hot enough for a bath and begin preparing breakfast before she awoke!


	11. Chapter 11

The past few nights, Christine had refused to go to bed. She insisted on holding Erik's hands and not leaving his side, no matter how tired either of them were.

Erik, of course, could deny her nothing, even though his mask was chafing his skin. He hadn't been able to leave it off for very long out of the fear that Christine might be caught by surprise by his unmasked face. He tried to extricate himself from her grip, but she held fast to him. And so he had to be content to recline on the settee and adjust the young woman so that they might be more comfortable.

Well, as comfortable as two people could be when sleeping in such an awkward position.

Tonight, he would simply _have_ to insist that Christine should sleep in her own bed.

"Oh, but, Erik . . . I feel so much safer when you're beside me," she pouted.

He sighed, defeated. How could he hold to his own will when she gazed up at him with such limpid eyes? "Very well, my dear. But perhaps we should find a more suitable spot tonight?"

"Oh, yes, of course!" She clapped her hands together. "We could lie by the hearth . . . I'll bring in some pillows and the covers . . . or . . ." She blushed furiously at the thought that had crossed her mind.

Erik chuckled at the lovely shade of crimson she had turned. It was clear to him what she was thinking. "My sweet little Christine! What thought has entered your mind that makes you blush so prettily?"

She lifted her face defiantly, her eyes wide. "It's nothing. Nothing at all." She couldn't very well admit that she'd thought of the bed before the hearth. What respectable young woman slept in a bed with a man who was not her husband beside her?

And so they left it at that. Erik gathered pillows and an extra quilt out of the trunk he kept beneath his coffin/bed. What was she doing to him? He felt so much . . . _lighter_ than he had before! She brought out something in him that he had thought long since dead, and he could feel himself smiling yet again.

But the mask was still an issue for him. How could he spend another night with the blasted thing rubbing against his face? Perhaps he could sleep with his back to Christine? Or he could hide himself with a pillow and the covers? There had to be some way to protect her from the hideousness of his face!

When he made his way back to the sitting room, he noticed that Christine had managed to make a cosy cocoon in front of the fireplace. She had also changed out of her day dress and into a heavy nightgown, her hair hanging in golden cascades down her shoulders.

She looked absolutely angelic.

Christine gave a shy smile to him when she saw him pause in the doorway. She felt like such a little girl with the covers piled high around her. It was a bit like the nights she used to spend huddled with her father in barns . . . but only just a little.

This was a markedly different situation.

Tentatively, cautiously, he crossed the room. Tentatively, cautiously, he lowered himself to sit beside her. He arranged the extra pillows around them so they would have more room on either side. He was still terribly nervous about this entire situation. It was inappropriate, he kept thinking, but, after all, who was there to see them? Who was there to object or cast aspersions?

No one! And Christine didn't seem to mind. Indeed, she was perfectly comfortable with the way things were between them. She was still so adorably innocent in so many ways. He was almost loathe to corrupt that purity.

They settled into their makeshift bed and huddled together in silence. The fire was starting to die down and fade to embers, casting a warm glow upon the pair.

"Erik?" Christine finally broke the stillness with her whisper.

"Yes, Christine?" he whispered back.

"Are you comfortable?"

"Yes, my dear. Are you warm enough?"

"Yes, thank you."

He could tell she was beginning to drift off to sleep by the sound of her breathing slowing. She was a sound sleeper, he knew, and likely wouldn't wake until the morning. He might be able to slip the mask off without her noticing . . .

She stirred briefly and shifted, but her eyes remained closed. Erik let out the breath he had been holding. He reached up, agonisingly slowly, and placed his hand upon the stays of his mask. Stealthily, quietly, he pried the slip of material away from his sensitive skin. He didn't need much sleep, so he was sure he would rise well before she would. That had been their normal routine, had it not? Why should anything change with this?

He shifted so he was on his side and facing away from Christine. He flinched when he felt her arm snake its way around him, pulling him closer. Before he knew it, he had drifted off into blissful, peaceful oblivion.

After several agonisingly long moments, Christine propped herself up on one elbow. In this low light, she could only barely make out Erik's features, but she was determined to see him. He had removed the mask of his own accord, and in her presence, so he had practically given her permission to see his face, or so she reasoned.

She held her breath as she inched her way tortuously forward. What would she see? How much would she be _able_ to see? She steeled herself for what she might encounter. Once she was able to make out the outline of his profile, she drew in a sharp breath.

Erik opened his eyes suddenly. Was Christine . . . was she looking upon his unmasked face? She wasn't screaming in agony, so perhaps he was dreaming it.

When he felt her lips upon his sunken cheek, he knew it was no dream. Oh, what bliss to feel a kiss upon his face!

She planted another kiss upon his cold temple and burrowed herself even closer to his back. She was going to warm his body if he drained every last bit of heat from her in the process!

And his face wasn't all that bad! When he'd said that his own parents couldn't bear the sight of him, she had thought - she wasn't entirely sure what she had thought. But seeing him now, in the gentle glow of the embers, he wasn't horrible to look at. True, there was hardly a nose to speak of, and his eyes did seem to recede into his skull, but his was a face that she could cherish. She already knew she loved him, and could even fall _in love_ with him, given time, so the face behind the mask had been a mere formality, really.

She settled herself back into the pillows, her arms still around her angel, and fell into a blissful, peaceful sleep.

In the morning, Christine stretched luxuriously, then realised where she was. But Erik was no longer beside her!

Her mind raced. Did he know what she had done? Was he angry with her? Had he abandoned her?

No, that last option was not a possibility! He could never do something so heartless and cruel as to leave her here to fend for herself. She could never make her way back aboveground on her own!

She shook her head to clear it of such nonsense, then began to rise just as Erik was coming back in.

"Sit, sit, Christine! I was certain I would return before you awoke. I only left to buy you some brioche and chocolate. And," he held up the bouquet sheepishly, "to get you these."

"Oh! Erik, they're lovely! You do spoil me so," she grinned mischievously. _'Does he know that I beheld his face last night?_'

'_Did she really gaze upon my hideous visage last night? Or was that but a sweet dream?'_ "There, now, my dear, isn't this nice?" he asked once he had ensconced himself at her side again.

She grinned, then took a bite out of the small brioche he handed her. She couldn't risk speaking without having the urge to tell him what she'd done.

"Christine?"

She gazed at him thoughtfully.

"Is there something on your mind, ange?'

She only trusted herself to shake her head.

"You seem . . . lost in your thoughts, my dear."

She looked away from him guiltily. With some difficulty, she swallowed the bit of bread in her mouth. She rubbed her eyes. "I'm . . . I have a confession to make to you, my angel. I . . ." She gulped back the tears that threatened to flow. How upset would he be with her once she told him?

Erik prepared himself for what he about to hear. Would he be able to bring himself to let her go? Or would he keep her against her will? She knew where he lived. Could she be trusted to keep his secrets, knowing how ugly he was?

She delayed speaking again, but she knew she couldn't put it off for very long. She was not a child who could wickedly keep a secret for as long as it suited her! She was becoming a woman, and it was high time she started acting like it!

She cleared her throat yet again. "Erik . . . I know you asked that I never request to see your face . . . but, last night . . . you took off your mask, didn't you?"

He nodded mutely. She closed her eyes preparing herself for the torrent of anger she feared would burst loose from him soon.

"I woke up . . . and . . . I . . . my blasted curiosity got the better of me . . . I saw . . . I saw your face." _'There. I've said it. Now let me have what I have coming to me.'_

"You . . . you saw . . . but . . . you did not . . . scream? And you remain here? Of your own free will?" Erik was dumbfounded.

Christine opened her eyes, surprised by his reaction. "Of course I remain. Why ever would I leave you?" she responded hoarsely.

"My face . . . I told you . . ."

"Erik . . . I knew the man first. Your face . . . is a face I cherish because it is yours."

Were his ears deceiving him? Had she really said she - she _cherished_ his face?


	12. Chapter 12

"Chr-Christine . . . cher- _cherishes_ Erik's face?" he finally managed to stammer.

"Of course I do! How could I not, when I -," she stopped herself, unable to utter the words. _'No. Not now. Not yet.'_

"Did you get a good look?" he whispered.

"What?" she squeaked, confused.

"Last night, in the dim light of the fireplace, did you. Get. A good look. At my. Face?" he repeated, trying to keep the anger and resentment out of his voice. He had the sneaking suspicion that she didn't really know what he looked like, that she only had a vague impression of his true appearance.

She opened her mouth to affirm that she had, but then she realised that, without sufficient lighting, all she had was a blurry image in her mind, at best. "I - I thought -," she gulped. "Are you terribly angry at me?" she fought back the tears that were threatening to break free once again.

"Tell me if you truly saw me, Christine," he commanded.

"It was - it was so dark. I - I - I wanted to see because . . ." her fear cut off her voice.

"You wanted to see because?" he prompted.

"Be - because . . . I . . . because I am a foolish girl who . . . I wanted to see the face of the man who possesses such an immense . . . intellect . . . and such a heavenly voice!" she choked out.

"And what did you see when your wretched curiosity made you take leave of your senses?" he snarled.

"I saw . . . that your nose . . . isn't entirely there . . . and . . . your face is gaunt and thin. And your eyes . . . your eyes are deep-set," she admitted in a dreamy tone.

"You can speak of my features with such . . . You can speak like _that_ of _this?_' he hissed as he removed his mask again.

She sniffled and drank in every aspect he had laid bare. She made her way forward, her eyes two pools of adoration. Being with him, alone together in this room, she felt something stirring within her that she could not name. She only knew that she wanted to caress his cheek.

He stood, unmoving, as she inched closer to him. She had not screamed, fainted, or become ill at the sight of him. But, he would not allow himself to believe that she . . . Surely, she could never . . . Not if she knew the truth about him and his past.

At last, her hands were upon his face. His skin was so cold to her touch. She had expected that after what she had felt last night, but she had foolishly hoped that he might be warm after the way she had held him for all those hours. She gazed up at him, her eyes opened and clear, and attempted to memorise every last detail.

She could understand how someone might see him and claim that he had a great hole where his nose never grew, why his skin was described as yellow parchment.

A thought struck her. _'That is how the Opera Ghost is described by the stagehands. Is Erik the Opera Ghost? Do I dare to ask him? Or should I wait for him to bring up such a subject?'_

He remained stiff and emotionless the entire time her hands probed his face. She had betrayed him, and he didn't know if he'd be able to forgive her. He only knew that he did not want to send her away. She didn't seem to want to _be_ sent away, so what did it matter? She might learn to look past this and see the man behind the mask.

Christine knew that she would have to make amends for having betrayed his trust. She had guessed that he would be upset to know that she had seen his face without his permission, but the damage was done, and now he _had_ unmasked himself to let her see him.

It was a bit of a shock, of course, but nothing so horrid as to give her nightmares. His skin was red in a few places; she surmised that it was from wearing the mask for so many hours while in her presence. He would simply have to stop wearing it around her, then!

"Erik? Your skin . . ." she began.

"Yes, it is as cold as a corpse's, is it not?" he sneered at her.

"Your mask . . ." she continued softly, ignoring his snide remark. "It rubs against your skin, doesn't it? You must stop wearing it while we are at home," she declared with finality.

"Chr- Christine wishes for Erik not to wear his mask?" He grasped her hands, still upon his face. He planted petal soft kisses upon those sainted fingertips before daring to look directly into her eyes. "You truly are not disgusted by me?"

She blinked in disbelief. "How - how could you think . . . I could never be disgusted by you! You are my Erik, and I love you."

"Oh, Christine!" he wailed. "You know not what it means to love me! You don't know . . . There are parts of my past . . . I made you love the Angel of Music. I - I took advantage of you . . . used your favourite story to - to manipulate you . . . I abducted you and brought you here . . . made you dependent upon me . . . How can you claim to love me?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>*slinks back down to the secret chamber in the fifth cellar to hide from the angry mob*<strong>_


	13. Chapter 13

_***crawls out of an ubersecret chamber in fifth cellar (where the authoress has been slaving away to post new poems at Helium) encounters no angry mob . . . sighs in relief* I like going back to read the reviews! Seriously, the feedback is like mega-awesome cookies with rainbow-coloured sugar sprinkles! Oh, the fluff bunnies of death!**_

_**Wait, what the hell did I just say? What strange power compels me to keep writing this? *dashes off, then returns in puff of reddish smoke for the uber-important task of giving you another chapter of my insane ramblings***_

_**LadyCavalier: I'm basking in the adoration! Woohoo! But, um, why would you think the holidays would mean I could **_**possibly**_** have time to write a chapter a day? Haha! Silly phan, keep dreaming! ~_^  
><strong>_

_**StrawberryStoleYourCookie: Owl City? Never heard of it (I was kind of thinking of Star Trek when I wrote that poem (Warp Drive).). And . . . *Edward Elric reaction, aka jumping up and down in a totally not extreme overreaction to what was said* MILK IS EVIL! Unless it's plant-based, of course. *wink* And, because you mentioned her, I'm just going to **_**have**_** to have Anahita make another appearance . . . *ducks to avoid blunt objects being thrown***_

_**elfinmyth: Haha! Yes, I had to throw in a little . . . *ahem* drama . . . and I'm pleased to hear -erm, read that those grammar "thingies" helped! ^_^ *Snoopy dance at the mention of chocolate and flowers* *cough* Raoul . . .*cough* As River Song would say, "Spoilers!" And I'm pretty sure I had seen that letter before, but I couldn't remember where, so I credit you with where I, you know, pilfered it from.**_

_**nonesuch: Hehehe, Raoul's reaction . . .**_

_**Eldunari Liduen: Hehe! I couldn't resist a little ALW thrown in there! Oh, and, yes, DUCKIE! And blanket forts!**_

_**SquidPire: I'm glad you're enjoying it!**_

_**MoonlightDuchess: I'm having fun writing this!**_

_**ReverendSquid: Yay for the fuzziness!**_

_**Wow, is it really the thirteenth chapter already? How the heck did I find time to write so much of this? Oh, maybe I typed it up while I was sleeping . . . Or else, Erik came along and wrote it . . . Hmmmm . . .**_

_**All right, that's enough of my silly rambling. On to the story!**_

* * *

><p>"How can you claim to love me?" Erik repeated insistently.<p>

Christine merely stood in front of him, held immobile by his vise-like grip on her hands. How could she hope to answer that question when she wasn't sure herself how she knew she loved him? All she knew was that, somewhere in the course of their lessons and the time she had been down here, below the opera house and away from the rest of society, she had managed to fall helplessly, hopelessly in love. He had rescued her from the doldrums to which she had resigned herself. Now, she realised, she would simply have to save him from the darkness within his own soul.

Whatever had happened in his past to make him so untrusting would have to be put to rest before they could move forward together.

"Erik . . . I . . . You are hurting me," she winced as his hands squeezed hers even tighter.

"Oh, Erik would not want to _hurt_ poor little Christine! Erik will cover his face with the mask to avoid harming Christine with his accursed ugliness!"

As he turned to retrieve his mask, Christine placed a hand on his sleeve. "Erik," she murmured, "you were only squeezing my hands too tightly. I . . . do not wish you to feel the need to wear your mask in my presence." She inhaled slowly and let it out in a sigh, praying that he would calm down.

* * *

><p><em>Elsewhere in Paris . . .<em>

Philippe was similarly hoping that Raoul's tantrum would soon end. But where Erik's anger was cold and controlled, Raoul's was heated and volatile. He continued to throw trinkets and baubles at walls while he shouted epithets that are best not repeated here.

"How?" Raoul was fairly seething with jealous rage. "She . . . she could have _told _me there was someone else!" _'Why didn't Madame Valerius just_tell_ me someone was already courting her?'_

"Perhaps she wanted to spare your feelings," Philippe consoled. "You were so set on her remembering that summer by the sea that she may have wished to-,"

"What do I care what she wished?" he retorted sharply. "If she had given me some time, I would have _made _her recall what we shared! She would have loved me again!"

Philippe was aghast at such a declaration from his little brother. The de Chagnys were nothing if not honourable. The lad had been so calm in his youth, but something had happened to make him angry and out of control. But what? What could have been so jarring as to warrant such a drastic change?

Raoul stormed off without a word as to where he was going or when he would return, leaving the elder man to fret. He would simply have to ask La Sorelli if anything untoward had occurred recently. She would surely know of any gossip circulating among the other dancers and chorus girls.

* * *

><p>After a few moments, Erik came back to himself and apologised to Christine. "I . . . am sorry, my dear. My . . . anger . . . has a way of . . . getting the better of me at times. It is at those times that you must be very careful, for I forget myself then, and I might do things that I will not be aware of."<p>

"I understand, Erik. And I am sorry, too."

"Sorry? What have you to be sorry for?" _'She is an angel to worry about me the way she does. Those eyes . . . such caring, sweet eyes . . .'_

"For . . . having stolen a glance at your face without your permission. I should have waited until you allowed it."

"Ah, but I _did_ allow it this morning, did I not?" he remarked with a twinkle in his eye.

Christine smiled, relieved that his demeanour was back to what she had become a accustomed to. Even though she knew there were any number of things that might incur his wrath, she was determined that she would not be one of them.

* * *

><p>Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, made his way up to the Opera Garnier. There had to be some explanation for Christine's cold behaviour towards him! She remembered him, he was sure of it! But she simply didn't want to upset that masked man Philippe had seen her walking with!<p>

That _had_ to be it!

Content with his own contrived reasons, he ventured up to the offices to find one of the managers. They had to know where Christine Daae was or the identity of this mysterious singing teacher!

"Teacher?" M. Moncharmin aped. "We know not, Monsieur le Vicomte."

"Are you certain? I would, ah, be willing to increase my patronage if I were able to locate them and be assured of Mlle. Daae's . . . safety and well-being," Raoul offered.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur, but we really cannot help you locate her," M. Richard interjected. "If we knew, we would take you there ourselves. I dare say we should like to know who this mysterious tutor of hers is, as well. He seems to be able to work miracles if he could transform Mlle. Daae's voice to such glorious soulfulness within the space of three months!"

Raoul flushed. His memories of Christine included a beautiful voice! But, he reasoned, things had clearly changed in the decade since he had known her. Now, with a clearer head, he could see how rashly he had acted. He would certainly need to make amends with his brother! And with the help who surely had quite the mess to clean up after his tantrum!

"If you do hear from her, please, let me know. I should like to send . . . Ah," he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. "I would like to know that my old childhood playmate is all right. I have been worried about her."

"Oh, of course, worried," M. Moncharmin echoed.

"I shan't take up any more of your time this afternoon. If you will excuse me, gentlemen . . . I shall return later to check in on the rehearsals. With your permission, of course," Raoul added politely with a slight bow.

"Oh, yes, yes, of course! You - you and your family are always welcome to view a rehearsal, Monsieur le Vicomte!" M. Richard vowed as the young man exited the office. "How odd," he remarked, turning to M. Moncharmin as soon as the door was securely closed. "He seems . . . rather taken with that Swedish girl. Do you think it possible that . . ?"

"That . . ? Oh! Firmin! Don't be stupid! If a patron wanted to see one of the chorus girls be granted an audition, he wouldn't stoop to threatening letters! No, that _'Opera Ghost'_ business must be a silly trick of Debienne and Poligny's as a sort of . . . initiation . . . into the -"

"I'm not entirely convinced of that, Armand," he replied uneasily. He was not a superstitious man, but recent events had caused him to become rather wary of who might be listening.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Okay, so it's been a while since I've actually sat and read the whole book (just portions as I required them) so, if the managers seem out of character, I'm just writing them in my own way. I hope you've found this . . . interesting . . . so far . . .**_


	14. Chapter 14

_**How the heck do I find time for this? Oh, right, I don't sleep. Family, work, blog, fanfiction . . . Heheh, I had a heck of a time deciding what to put in this chapter and what to leave out. For now, anyway.**_

_**StrawberryStoleYourCookie: Mmm, flax milk is good, too, creamier and smoother, in my opinion. And, nah, I was planning on bringing Anahita back, anyway, just waiting for the right moment for her to make an appearance.**_

_**LadyCavalier: Oh, but we **_**must **_**have some drama and angst! It can't be all cuddle fluff all the time! ;-) Yes, quite impossible to post a chapter a day. Oh, poo, that I'm an adult with responsibilities . . . Besides,I'd rather take my time to ensure each chapter is up to my standard. :-)  
><strong>_

_**Eldunari Liduen: Yeah, writing tantrums is fun! I rather thought of Leroux's Raoul as an immature fop, but, when it mattered, he stepped up. Oh, poor Erik, so unable to believe he is worthy of love. *sigh* How long will it be before he accepts that Christine really does love him . . . Hmmm . . .  
><strong>_

_**Tarja the wind witch: That's just some silliness I threw in, as I do with all my author's notes. ;-) And thank you for the lovely words!**_

_**Okay, let's get back to . . . whatever the heck this bizarre thing is that has burst forth from my . . . disturbed mind . . .  
><strong>_

* * *

><p>Erik had gone for nearly two entire days without wearing his mask. His skin felt so much better without the stiff material rubbing against his face and causing him such discomfort; his skin was able to breathe again. He also found that he was becoming more comfortable with Christine seeing his face. She never once screamed at the sight of him, never shuddered at his touch when he reached for her in the night, didn't pull away when he inched closer to her.<p>

She was such a sweet girl.

How had he managed to stumble upon her and have the courage to make himself known to her . . . How had she managed to look past the deceit and the manipulation and his face . . . He didn't deserve her.

And yet, she remained with him, not because of some threat he had made or because he had scared her or because he had hypnotised her and manipulated her. She stayed with him because she _wanted_ to be there with him. She didn't want to leave his side when she grew tired at night. He was becoming terribly accustomed to having her sleep beside him. Oh, it was completely innocent, of course, but it was such a wonderful feeling to know that she actually cared about him!

But it saddened him to think that she didn't really know him all that well. She only knew him as her "Angel of Music", her voice teacher, and her friend. She had not even the slightest inkling of the crimes of his past, of the tortures committed under his watch, of the political assassinations.

Then there was the matter of how much older he was than she . . .

The thought of their age difference only occasionally made him pause and wonder if she might not prefer someone younger. But when he thought of her walking with someone else, telling someone else of her dreams and hopes, a fury blinded him with such force that he could not bear to let her leave his side. He didn't leave the house, and he wouldn't tend to business except through notes to Mme. Giry, and that he could do with Christine by his side in Box Five when they went to watch rehearsals. During those little outings, he discovered that she provided him with insights into the other girls that he never might have known. Even with all his spying, there were things that girls only told other girls in hushed whispers. And so, he insisted on having Christine with him at all times.

He loved her too much to relinquish the claim he had on her.

And she, for her part, would not have him relinquish that claim for all the jewels in Europe. She had to admit, if only to herself, that she rather enjoyed all the attention he was lavishing on her now. It had become a silly game between them. She would pout and insist that he needn't go to so much trouble and fuss over her this way, but, when he wasn't looking, she would feel the corners of her mouth tilt upwards in a secret grin.

She was aware that Erik saw all. And it pleased her to think that.

And it pleased him to know that what he did pleased her.

"Erik?" Christine's voice floated to his ear from across the room. "Might we go for a walk later?"

He turned from the composition he'd been working on to smile at her. "Yes, of course, my dear." He retrieved his pocket watch to check the time. It was still early. "After we have had supper. Perhaps we shall stop for some sweets." He didn't particularly care for sweets, or for sugar, for that matter, but, if it made Christine happy, he was happy to ingest some small confection.

"I would like that." She smiled at him then returned her attention to the book of Russian phrases she had spent the afternoon studying. She didn't want to burden Erik with having to translate everything for her when they went on their trip next summer! She just hoped that she wouldn't disappoint him with how slowly she was coming along with her studies.

No, she knew that he would help her with studying Russian whenever she asked him. He'd taught her the basics already, the correct pronunciation of each letter, the lilt and cadence of some of the words. But she wanted to be able to surprise him with her progress in a few days. She had learned French rather quickly when she was a child, and Breton had been a challenge she had been more than willing to accept. This was her fourth language, and she planned to become as fluent in it as she was with the first three.

More importantly, she wanted to be Erik's equal. Perhaps she would never be the genius he was, but she could certainly strive to educate herself as much as she could. He definitely had a wealth of books on a variety of subjects to help her in quest for knowledge!

* * *

><p>Raoul paced the drawing room, wondering what had come over him the day before. Why had he reacted so strongly to hearing Philippe tell him that he had witnessed Christine walking with a man? He was in no position to demand that she meet with no one else! Mme. Valerius herself had told him that she was off with her "good genius". Could that be the man Philippe had seen her with?<p>

Why did this matter so much to him? Mme. Valerius had said that it would be inappropriate for a member of the aristocracy to court a singer, and she was right. Christine would have to abandon all thought of a career on stage if he were to court her properly. If she refused to do that, he would probably have to relinquish his title if he truly desired a - dare he think of it? - a marriage with his childhood friend.

The idea of giving up his title and the money and properties that came with it gave him pause. Perhaps, as his brother had suggested, he should bide his time before settling down. He was still young and inexperienced. He had plenty of time for serious matters later. He could socialise with people before settling down with a suitable wife.

With this new outlook, he resolved to ask Sorelli, the next time he saw her, if she knew someone that could accompany him to supper in the evenings. He would ask her to introduce him to someone . . . fun.

* * *

><p>Supper in the house by the lake was pleasant. Erik told Christine more about the different places he had lived - but he did gloss over the details of events he said he was " not proud of" - and the buildings he had designed in various cities. She was utterly fascinated by his tales and listened in wide-eyed rapture.<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Next, another glimpse of Christine's diary . . .**_


	15. Chapter 15

_**Another excerpt from Christine's diary. A few excerpts, actually. Enjoy!**_

* * *

><p><em>(From a few days before Erik, as the Angel of Music, made himself known to her)<em>

In the days of my childhood, my father used to tell me such fantastic stories, filled with creatures like tomtes being helpful to kind people and gnomes hiding in gardens and beings made of pure music.

He told me of angels of music who sometimes left the spheres of the heavens to grace mortal ears with their glorious songs. It is those lucky, blessed few to whom the great gift of music is granted.

I used to dream that I was one of those fortunate few, in those days after my dear mother died and Poppa and I went from village to village, when I used to sing along to his fiddling at weddings. There are times I can almost imagine myself there again, sleeping, nestled in my father's warm embrace, in a barn, in Sweden, in winter.

I know my voice has lost its soul, the vibrancy it had in my youth, but I fear there is nothing to bring back the passion I once felt. If any angels of music really did exist, I fear none would deign to bother with me.

* * *

><p><em>(The night when Christine first heard that heavenly voice)<em>

Earlier tonight, the angel of music made himself known to me. Oh, I know it wasn't _really_ an angel - I am not so silly to believe in the supernatural; perhaps in my younger days, I might have - but, whoever he is, he is a godsend (for lack of a better term). When I heard that beautiful voice, I could almost allow myself to succumb to the belief that he had been sent by my father, as he claimed when we spoke. I wonder if Poppa would be terribly disappointed to know that my faith died with him?

Oh, I still have faith in a higher power and an afterlife where the good are rewarded and the unjust are punished, but I find it difficult to put complete trust in a Creator that would allow something as dreadful as consumption to claim my father and, years before, to take my mother from us. I fear it was her death that left him heartbroken and weakened him and led him to fall prey to the illness which wracked his body for so many years.

I can never say any of that aloud, of course, not amongst these devoutly religious and terribly refined Parisians. I had enough trouble finding a plausible excuse not to accompany the other chorus girls to church. Not knowing anything about Catholicism, I would be lost in their service. I am not at all familiar with their prayers. I only know the Lutheran service, and that, only in Swedish.

I just don't know. I don't really know myself anymore. No one at the opera knows me very well, not that I've allowed anyone to get close to me. I keep myself to myself. I'm sure they all think me a bit odd.

And yet, there is one who felt me worthy of his attention.

He promised me that, one day, my voice would soar as his does. I doubt that mine will ever sound quite so heavenly, for his voice brought me to such ecstasy that I nearly thought myself in the presence of God Himself! Why, why did this man choose me? His voice sounded rather sad, as though he were as lonely as I have been.

Maybe we crossed paths for a reason. Maybe, just maybe, my father _did _send him my way.

* * *

><p><em>(During her stay in the house by the lake, <em>after Christine truly saw Erik's face<em>)_

I finally saw my dear Erik's face! It was not nearly so terrifying as he'd led me to think. True, there is hardly a nose to speak of, and his eyes are quite sunken in, and his lips are dreadfully thin, but it was nothing so terrible to look at.

He is my Erik, and his face is a face I cherish because it is his. I even told him so before he left this afternoon to attend to his business affairs. I wonder just what business it is that he does? He only leaves occasionally and for brief periods. Yet, he always seems to have enough money to not have to worry about taking care of me.

Perhaps he sells his music or gives lessons? No, I rather doubt that.

He does know an awful lot about the opera, but he has lived here for many years. I wonder if moving out to the country might not help his health? Before we are married, I shall have to talk to him about that.

What am I thinking? He has not broached the subject of courting me! He has only met Maman once, and he never spoke to her of that! Of course, I did leave the room to fetch my muff, and I did hear them continue to speak, but I didn't dare hope that - Oh, my dear sweet Erik! Do you feel the same way about me as I do about you?

* * *

><p><em>(After their conversation over supper when Erik told her more about his journeys)<em>

Oh, how I adore hearing Erik tell me about his life! That voice is one I could gladly swim in. All the places he has been utterly fascinate me. But I know there are things he is not telling me. He admits as much by saying there are parts of his life that he is not proud of.

What could be so horrible that he would hide it from me? I can't imagine him being capable of any crime for which I could not forgive him! Surely, he will tell me in time. There must have been mitigating circumstances that led him to do . . . whatever it was he did.

I must stop letting my imagination run wild like this! I let myself begin to think the worst - that perhaps he has hurt people before - without cause. What silly thoughts course through my head! I can only imagine what a foolish little girl Erik would think me if he had any idea the things I have come up with!

His tales of the buildings he created are full of wonders, though! Mazes and secret corridors and machines that walk about and mimic kings . . . I wonder how much of that is actually true?


	16. Chapter 16

**_A/N: Ah, finally, a new chapter! Unfortunately, my preferred browser on my BlackBerry (Bolt browser) was discontinued, so I had a tiny bit of trouble getting this chapter added to the story. *le sigh* Anyway . . . There's just something about the winter solstice that makes me so happy and inspired! Happy holidays and Merry Frostmas, everybody!_**  
><strong><em>Oh, and Eldunari, yeah, 'gnomes' does look a little like 'tomatoes'! Hehehe!<em>****  
><strong>**_Lady Cavalier, ah, I remember those days when I was a teenager . . . It feels like so long ago! Oh, wait, it was so long ago . . . -_- Heh, your mention of Legend of Zelda made me think of Cody Rhodes!_**_  
><em>**_Guest (2014), yes, thank you! I don't know how I could have typed that ('De ryan' instead of 'De rien.') I wrote this chapter a couple of years ago, and I guess my old spellchecker changed it on me. Urgh. Fixed it now._**  
><strong><em>Last chapter, we got inside Christine's head. Let's hear from Erik this time, shall we? Then we'll switch back to a narrative. Enjoy!<em>**

_(Erik's thoughts in the days after Christine has unmasked him)_

_I cannot believe my dear Christine has seen my face and not been repulsed by it! She is such a sweet girl, always smiling and trying to make me more comfortable. She had told me that she wanted me not to feel it necessary to wear my mask when we are in the house by the lake._

_Soon, my other mask will be complete. I have managed to get the substance to a suitable consistency and colour that will appear as skin should. That will be applied over gauze and allowed to harden on the plaster mould of my face. The substance will remain pliable once it has dried and can then be placed on my face and will remain in place with a bit of adhesive that I have found is quite suitable for my skin. Any other type of adhesive only irritates me and leaves my face chafed and reddened._

_And I must not do anything that would make me feel embarrassed in Christine's presence!_

_No, no, I shall take better care of myself for her sake. She has encouraged me to eat more, as well. She refuses to dine unless I join her now. Oh, what an angel has entered my life!_

_But would she continue to care about me as much if she knew all the horrors of my past? If she knew how many lives had been ended by my very hands, would she still allow me to brush those golden locks? Had she ever heard the orders I had barked, condemning men to gruesome fates, would she be so eager to listen to the things I say to her when I instruct her in her music lessons?_

He gazed down at his hands then, and sighed. Would that he could change the sins of his past and be a good man for her! But he could not. All he could do was be a good man for her now.

_'Ah, dear, sweet, innocent Christine! What did I ever do to deserve to have your beauty in my life? How did you wander into my path to -'_

Christine knocked tentatively at on the door jamb. He had been so lost in thought, and she was loathe to interrupt him when he had that look in his eyes. She made a soft noise in the back of her throat when she noticed he was wearing his mask again.

He lifted a hand to the stiff material. Erik knew that his angel didn't like it when he hid himself from her, but it had been necessary that day. There had been errands to run after breakfast, and, as she had still been exhausted from the previous day's lesson, she had needed rest.

She had, mercifully, fallen asleep in the Louis-Philippe room the moment her head had hit the pillow. Better she should not be awake to bombard him with her curious questions as soon as he had re-entered the house.

But now, she was wide awake, and she was clearly none too pleased.

She crossed the room in a huff and plucked the offending scrap from his face. She traced a cautious finger along his bony curves to check for any return of the rash that she knew plagued him on occasion. Satisfied when she found nary a patch of irritated or red skin upon his cherished face, she sat beside him, her skirts rustling to the same rhythm as the crackling of the fire.

They simply sat there, enjoying the nearness of each other, for several moments. What was it about him, Christine wondered, that made her feel so safe in his presence and yet, as though . . . She couldn't quite place her finger on the other thing he made her feel. She loved him, of course, but there was an undercurrent of . . . Was it unease? She knew there was much he had not told her, so much she still didn't know.

She was still terribly naive to so much, Erik mused. She found nothing inappropriate about being his house, away from anyone else, with no chaperone to scold them for being too affectionate. No, she seemed not even to worry about what a man might do to her or that no one could hear her screams.

It was at that moment that he knew he could never leave her alone in the house again, not even to discuss business with the managers. How could he have been so stupid as to have gone traipsing about just to buy her a new dress? He should have taken her with him, of course!

He shook his head at his own foolishness. She needed to be returned to the world above. He could not allow himself to be selfish where she was concerned.

"Christine?" he broke the silence with a whisper.

"Yes, Erik?" She turned to him with a shy smile.

"It will be time for you to return to the opera soon . . ."

"I know," she sighed. "I've been trying not to dwell on that."

"I shall still visit you - to tutor you, that is - as often as you wish."

"Every day?" she queried with hope.

"You know I could deny you nothing."

She blushed. Oh, how he adored that blush! He would have to find flowers that matched that beauty and present them to her in her dressing room. Yes, milky white petals with just a hint of pink. Perhaps a bouquet of pale flowers, bundled together with a ribbon to match her hair. How lovely she would look with that ribbon holding her hair back from her face as she bustled about the kitchen . . . in a house out in the countryside . . . a garden along the wall . . .

He was stirred from his reverie by the pressure of her head against his shoulder. _'Is this what Heaven is like?'_ he pondered. _'No, even Heaven could not compare to this bliss! Whatever might await me in the afterlife, at least I've had this moment with her!'_

Christine took one of his gloved, bony hands in her own. She removed the black material and marvelled again at how long his fingers were! She was always marvelling at him, it seemed. _'I might give up a professional singing career if he so desired. But I know that he would never allow me to set aside that dream or waste all the hours of training he has provided.'_ She lifted that bony hand to her cheek and shivered slightly at how cold it felt! But she would not trade any part of Erik for any handsome or rich or dashing man.

This was her Erik, and she loved him. She would stand beside him for the rest of her life. She sighed, contented to be here with him.

Knowing that it would be over soon cast only a slight shadow over their happy mood.

* * *

><p>"Oh, but Erik, must I really go back today? Could I not stay for just one more night?" she implored him with tears just starting to form at the corners of her eyes.<p>

"Now, now, my sweet, you knew this day was coming," he remarked. It was clear that he was going to have to be strong enough for the both of them. He sighed for the umpteenth time that morning. It was still remarkably early, and he knew that no others would be out roaming the streets at this hour. He had managed to steal away from Christine during one of their outings to advise Madame Valerius that Christine would be at her door on this date. The older woman understood why he should wish not to wait until later in the morning to return her ward and assured him that she and her maid would be waiting.

He swooped Christine up into his arms and promised her, yet again, that he would go up to her dressing room and visit her before her performances, just as he had done before.

"Will you also come see me at Maman's sometimes?" she sniffled.

"You know I could deny you nothing, my dear girl," he vowed with a kiss to her forehead.

She pressed herself to him then, inhaling his scent as though she wanted to memorise every nuance of him. When his arms tightened around her, she let out the softest whimpering moan he had ever heard, and his resolve faltered. She wanted to stay with him, and who was he to say no to her?

No, he had promised Madame to have Christine back today! He would not go back on his word, and Christine would just have to accept that. She was still so very young, with much of the world to learn . . .

He hoisted her heavier bag and waited for her to retrieve the smaller case she had packed. They would have to make haste if they were to avoid the earliest merchants setting out their wares. And he had to pay a visit to the Founiers' before going to Madame's. It was so good of Mme. Fournier to accommodate him this way. Then again, he did pay the couple handsomely for the services they provided him.

As they journeyed upwards towards the door that led to the Rue Scribe, Erik wondered again if he were doing the right thing for Christine by promising to visit her every day. Might he be doing more harm than good? Was he simply being selfish by keeping her from forming other friendships?

_'Nonsense!'_ he told himself. She could still socialise, whenever she so chose. There was nothing to stop her from talking to other girls or going out to - Come to think of it, she'd rarely gone out with friends before. Her social circle had always been rather small. Perhaps he was worrying over nothing.

A brief stop at the Fourniers' café provided him with enough breakfast for himself, Christine, Madame, and her maid. Even more, she informed him, in case anyone else should stop by at that unlikely hour. "Who should possibly stop by the Valerius flat so early in the morning?" he chuckled. "But I am sure it will not go to waste. Merci beaucoup, Madame Fournier."

"De rien, Monsieur Utkin, et bon matin," she remarked as he made his way back to the door where Christine had waited. The two women smiled at each other fondly but silently before the younger woman followed Erik out.

It was such a lovely start to their morning that Erik almost felt as though he were walking on air the rest of the way!


	17. Chapter 17

_**A/N: Another chapter so soon? Yes! This always happens during winter . . . I get hit by an odd bout of inspiration (praise be to the Muses!) and I wind up writing. And writing. And writing. Ah, how I enjoy it!  
><strong>_

_**LadyCavalier: Yep, fluffy-wuffy lovey-dovey snuggles of Erik and Christine! Hehehe! "Authentic"? Yeah, I try to keep my stories at least somewhat realistic. Cody Rhodes is a wrestler (WWE) who has mentioned the Legend of Zelda games a few times. **_

_**Ah, the places my mind goes when it comes to POTO . . .**_

* * *

><p>Breakfast, as early as it was, went perfectly uneventfully. There had been a knock at the door, but it had only been a delivery of flowers.<p>

Christine had certainly eaten her fill of food! Potatoes, croissants, eggs covered in Gruyère . . . not to mention the fruit! It seemed La Fourniesse had packed just the right amount of food, Erik had thought with silent laughter.

"Your cook is quite the treasure, my dear boy," Mme. Valerius remarked appreciatively after they had retired to the parlour.

"Oui, the Fourniers are invaluable to me. I do not know how I would cope without their help," Erik replied sincerely.

Christine rested her head against his shoulder and stifled a yawn that did not go unnoticed by anyone. "We should all go to the Fourniers' café sometime, Maman. It is warm and cosy, and they are so nice . . ." Even before she finished the sentence, she had drifted off to sleep on Erik's shoulder again.

"Perhaps I should take her to her bed so she can rest. She will have a bit of explaining to do at the opera house."

"Oh, no need to worry about that, my boy. I spoke with the chorus-master - nervous little man, name of Gabriel. When I told him of the situation, that Christine was off having singing lessons with a private tutor, his face blanched! He looked as though he had seen a _ghost_!"

Erik could not reveal the real reason M. Gabriel had reacted that way, not with Christine still in the room. After he had situated her in her bed and tucked her in, he trudged back to Madame's side.

She held up a finger. "I saw the look in your eyes when I mentioned M. Gabriel. You know more than you let on, don't you?"

He nodded mutely.

"Tell me," she instructed.

He heaved a sigh of relief. She had spared him some of the awkwardness of beginning his complicated tale. "It . . . is a long story, Madame."

"Well, before you start, I must insist you call me Maman, as Christine does. Or, if you prefer, Anne." She rested a hand on his and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Just tell me as much as you're comfortable with."

"All right . . . Anne." He nodded, inhaled, and started at the beginning. "When I was a baby, my parents were horrified by my face. I doubt anyone in our village even knew I existed. Oh, they took care of me, as much as they could, under the circumstances. When I was old enough, but still a boy, I left their home and found my way to a travelling fair that was passing through Rouen. From there, I became . . . quite a . . . novelty . . ." His voice cracked at the painful memories.

"Is that why you wear the mask?" she asked softly.

He could only nod. "I look . . ." He could not continue.

"It's all right. You don't have to show me. Has Christine seen?"

Again, he nodded.

"How long did you stay with the fair?"

"A few years." His voice became calm and level. "My . . . _manager_ . . . was a cruel man. He berated me and whipped me when people demanded their money back. But I only did as the crowds asked, performing whatever tricks they wanted, but, as the show went on, someone would become curious and ask to see my face, and I would comply. I had to, as part of the show was that I would do what the audience asked of me. Once they saw my face, they were always horrified. I was just a boy! Were they right? Was I a monster? Had a deceived them in any way?" His questions were more to himself than to Anne.

She could only sit in enraptured silence. _'What an odd life he's lived! It's no wonder Christine was so taken with him. And his voice _does_ sound heavenly! So full of emotion . . .'_

"After I left that fair, I made my way to another, where I was treated better." His voice lost some of his darkness; not much, just enough to be noticed by a keen ear. "As a teenager - at least, I think those were my teenage years; I never have known the actual date of my birth - I travelled the whole of Europe with them! I had already learned a few languages; it was with them that I was able to make better use of them. The manager of that fair had trouble communicating with some of his performers, and I was able to assist him in those matters. I had finally found a place where I could belong, but, even among other freaks of nature, I was still a monster. That was what the paying crowds wanted, and that is what they got. I realised I could never escape being _Le Mort Vivant!_ Once we stopped in Nizhny-Novgorod, I made the choice to remain in the area and set up my own tent there. I was no longer a child, and I was able to take care of myself. I had grown quite strong while at the fair. Living in Nizhny, I soon discovered that people were a bit more accepting of my grotesqueness than they had been in Europe. I could delight them with my magic tricks, with illusions, with ventriloquism! All the marvels of my own mind, of my own making would be what I would be known for there! And not one of them cared if I wore my mask or not.

"Unfortunately, it was that very fame that would be my undoing. The shahinshah of Persia and his favourite wife were utterly bored of the tortures they were inflicting on their subjects and captured enemies. They had heard of me from a furrier who had kidnapped - He kidnapped someone dear to me and sold her as a concubine into the shahinshah's harem."

"Oh, how dreadful!" Anne whispered. She could only guess at _how_ dear this someone had been to him.

"After that, the shah sent his daroga - chief of police - to Nizhni to coerce me into going to Persia." He raised his eyes to hers then. "I _had_ to go, you see. The daroga had intimated that she might be killed if I did not comply. I did go, and there . . ." He swallowed, searching for the right words to explain why he did all that he had done.

"You did what you had to do, my dear boy," she assured him. "What would any of us do, when the life of a loved one is at stake?"

The morning sun was just trickling in the windows, signalling to Erik that it was time for him to go. "I should like to visit with you again, Anne, and continue telling you of my life, if you would like to hear it."

"Yes, of course. Perhaps you can stop by for tea this afternoon? Even if Christine is at rehearsals, as she probably will be, it will give us more of a chance to talk." She smiled warmly up at him and patted his hand gently. "I can see why Christine is so fond of you."

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><p><em><strong>AN: Well, you can surmise what happens in the next chapter. It should be interesting what Anne's reaction will be when she hears the rest of Erik's tale, oui?**_


	18. Chapter 18

Christine awoke fully refreshed, if rather confused as to why Erik was not beside her. It took her several minutes to realise that she was back in her own bed in the flat she shared with Maman Valerius.

But she'd had the strangest dream!

As she'd slumbered, she had dreamt that Erik had told her more about his life. Who was this woman who had been so dear to him that he had gone to Persia to rescue her?

_Persia._

Did Erik know the Persian man who was permitted to wander about the opera house?

Unformed questions flooded her mind as she rose and prepared for the day. There would be time for answers later. Now, she had to prepare herself for a day of explaining her absence and regaining a spot in the chorus.

Once she arrived at the opera house, M. Gabriel blanched. Between Mme. Valerius's explanation as to the girl's absence and the cryptic note he'd received days earlier, he was terrified as to who else might be happy to see Christine Daae succeed.

He was almost as worried about who might enjoy seeing her fail.

She would audition for a spot in the chorus, as she had before. That would keep La Sorelli from bristling. Much. Christine would be one of the featured _dancers_. That would keep La Carlotta mollified. And she would not be turned away, which would keep Gabriel alive.

He gulped as she pranced back and forth along the stage, executing the moves she had spent years perfecting. A cold sweat broke out on his brow as he wondered if he were being watched. Fortunately, the lights were low everywhere but the stage, and he sat in darkness. When she began singing an aria that Erik had written specifically for her voice, a hush fell over the entire building. The words spoke of a longing love, the kind that makes for beautifully tragic opera. Not an eye was dry when she concluded her song.

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><p>Erik was terribly nervous about what Mme. Valerius would say to him. She knew of some of the pain of his past, even more than he had dared tell Christine. But Anne held his future happiness in her withered hands; if she decided that Christine must not associate with a murderer, he feared his poor heart would be unable to handle it.<p>

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><p>Sorelli had, as she had promised Philippe, found a girl for Raoul to spend time with. She was new to Paris, but she had long been a singer and a dancer. She had not spent years being classically trained, as Sorelli had been, but that wildness she still possessed after the time she'd spent in different cities in France made her all the more captivating.<p>

Yes, Mignon would do nicely as a companion on their outings.

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><p>Erik arrived at Anne's a bit late. He'd had to stop at the Fourniers' to tender their payment for the month and to pick up some of the croissants Anne had so enjoyed.<p>

He hated to admit that he'd dallied on his way there. He was more apprehensive than he could recall ever having been in his life. He was about to tell Anne what had happened during the "rosy hours" at Mazenderan . . . and what came after.


	19. Chapter 19

_**A/N: Ugh, my computer/internet connection was not being very cooperative with me this week, and neither was my fanfiction muse these past few weeks.  
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_**In case you're wondering why it was so long - nearly two months! - between updates, I was rather buried in work.  
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_**Wow, nineteen chapters and sixty reviews! I can scarcely believe it! Hehe, insomnia is my friend . . .**_

_**LadyCavalier: Ah, yes! The epic snuggles! YAY for Krispy Kreme and A's on report cards! And a much belated HAPPY BIRTHDAY!**_

_**Reverend Squid: I'm glad you're enjoying this! I've been trying to keep things in the realm of believable, and I'm pleased to hear that it has been so far.**_

_**JDLuvaSQUEE: Yay for faveourite chapters!**_

_**Eldunari Liduen: Yeah, it's going to be . . . teehee, extremely interesting . . .**_

_**Marlean: All I do is write, dear. Oh, you meant fanfic, didn't you? Too bad writing fanfic doesn't pay the bills or I'd spend a lot more time on it! :-)**_

_**Glad you're all enjoying this!**_

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><p>The so-called "Rosy Hours of Mazenderan" were dubbed such for reasons that Erik was loathe to admit to anyone. He hardly dared think on such events as they were wont to bring him nightmares. And yet, here he was, sitting with Mme. Anne Valerius, about to admit the horrors he had committed in those days. She was about to learn why the "Opera Ghost" was such a figure to be feared.<p>

He'd never been this nervous in his entire life. Even showing his face to Christine had been easier, though not by much. Anne held his very future in her delicate and weathered hands.

"Ah, Erik, it's so nice to see you again," Anne began lightly. "How did the rest of your morning go?"

"Oh, I . . . took care of some business at the opera house," he admitted.

"Ah, of course. Did you check on Christine while you were there? She did have an audition today with M. Gabriel, oui?" She arched an eyebrow even as she grinned.

Erik cleared his throat before attempting to speak. He chose his words carefully. "Mais bien sur. She did, and I heard. Her voice is quite remarkable. It is my honour to be able to . . . be of help to her career."

"Indeed." She paused while Mlle. Engström brought in the tea service. "Merci."

"Shall I go to the seamstress for you, now, Madame?" the maid asked in her throaty voice.

"Oh, yes. Heavens, I'd nearly forgotten about that. There's no rush; take your time, my dear."

After the honey-haired younger woman had gone out the front door, Mme. Valerius clasped her hands together. "Now then, my dear boy, about this phantom who haunts the opera house. What do you know of him? Does he really exist, or is he merely a figment of overworked imaginations?"

Erik wrung his hands, wondering how best to tell her. "The Phantom . . . He is . . . a man . . . who has taken advantage . . . of overworked imaginations . . . and superstitious minds . . . He . . ." His voice trailed off. Could he really admit to being the Phantom?

"So he _is _real? Have you any idea who he is?" Anne asked calmly. "I dare say, I should be intrigued to meet such a man who is capable of such manipulation. He must have an astounding intellect!"

Erik remained silent. He was aware of his own intelligence, but he didn't want to seem arrogant. He simply lifted a hand to his face to assure his mask was secure then he nodded his head. "M- Anne . . . This _phantom_ . . . He is not one to be trifled with. There are secret passages beneath the opera house, some of them very dangerous."

Anne inclined her head, ready to listen to whatever he had to tell her. "Now, where you left off earlier, you had to go to Persia . . ?" As she stirred cream and sugar into her tea, she listened, nearly hypnotised by the sound of his voice, as he revealed more of his storied past to her.

"There are parts of my past that I should prefer to forget."

"Yes, I can understand that. I believe we all have ghosts in our pasts that we'd sooner forget. If you don't wish to go into much detail, I will understand."

His mouth felt unusually dry at that moment. He swished hot tea with more than his usual amount of lemon around his tongue. "You must understand, Anne, that even _thinking_ of such events, all those years, is difficult for me. I have never spoken of it to anyone. You are the first I felt I could trust, besides Christine . . . that is, I trust that you will not judge me too harshly, even though I deserve it."

"Oh, now, my dear boy, you told me why you went to Persia. It was to assure the safety of someone who was dear to you. How could I ever judge you harshly for that?"

He bowed his head and took a deep breath before continuing._** "**_When I went to Persia, I had no idea what to expect. I had heard tales from some who frequented my tent that the Shah and his favourite wife had . . . rather . . . peculiar tastes in entertainment. Because of my unique proclivities with ventriloquism and sleight of hand, they . . . Well, they had me perform . . . in a . . . political capacity." He eyed her warily, wondering if she took his meaning.

She tilted her head. "Political capacity? What do you mean?"

"I dealt with . . . enemies of the crown . . ."

Comprehension slowly dawned on her pale face. "Oh!" she sighed at last. "They had you . . . Oh, my dear boy . . . my _dear_ boy . . . what horrors you must have gone through . . . being coerced . . . and manipulated like that! It is small wonder you don't like to think of those days."

"Still, the things I did at the Shah and the little sultana's command . . . they were still committed by my hands! And I must live with that knowledge . . . all the rest of my days."

"And your friend? What happened to her?" Anne asked after several moments of silence.

"Anahita," he replied as though lost in a dream. Erik remembered where he was and cleared his throat. "I was able to secure passage for her out of Persia and far from the . . . dangers of the palace. But that was not until after she'd fallen ill. I suspected she was poisoned by someone jealous of the attention I paid her." He shook his head in disbelief. "Whatever the cause of her malady, her beauty was . . . marred by malnutrition. I was able to have her taken, with help from the same daroga who had first lured me to Persia, to a hospital where she could recuperate."

Anne, sensing that this was too painful a memory for him to continue, asked if he might like some cake. He accepted it wordlessly, but his eyes spoke of his gratitude. He had carried the burden for far too long, and he was thankful that someone was willing to share it with him, even if only for a short time.


	20. Chapter 20

_**A/N: The trouble with working for myself is that I have a slavedriver for a boss.**_

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><p>Erik inhaled deeply and sighed before taking another sip of tea. The cake he'd eaten was sitting like a stone in his stomach. He'd scarcely been able to enjoy it as the feelings that were stirred up with his relating of times gone by had left a bad taste in his mouth. With Christine in his life, he'd been able to eat, but with the talks he was having with Anne over the past couple of days, he was feeling like his old self, back when he was completely alone.<p>

Anne regarded him thoughtfully once more. She was well aware that he'd only told her as much as he could bear, and that there were far worse things he didn't dare recall. Indeed, there were some parts of her own youth that she would prefer to leave forgotten. When he'd whispered the name, Anahita, the look on his face betrayed the love he still felt for her. She wondered what had happened to her, if she had fully recuperated at the hospital Erik had entrusted her care to, if she even still lived. She also worried what might happen should Erik come across his old flame while with Christine. She surmised that it was highly unlikely that should occur; however, it was still something to wonder about.

Christine was still so young in many ways. Anne doubted her adopted daughter had a jealous bone in her body, though the possibility existed that she considered Erik to belong only to her. If Christine were to hear that Erik had loved before, how might she react? The girl had only played at being sweethearts when she was much, much younger, and this was her first proper romance. The way she had spied Erik glancing at her told her all she needed to know about him.

Hearing him tell her of his sordid past didn't change what she knew already.

Erik's mind was a jumble of memories and emotions. He couldn't tell Anne the full extent of his relationship with Anahita, nor what had actually happened the night he'd fled Persia. He felt as though he were falling into a bleak abyss of torment. Anahita had been wonderful to him, yet he had fallen in love with someone else. How could he have moved on so easily? He had forsaken his first love and left her in the care of other people! He tried to remind himself that he could not have provided the care she had needed nor guaranteed her safety. The shah had placed too high a price on his head.

He couldn't stop the guilt that he felt bubbling beneath the surface of his psyche. Emotions he had long since believed he had laid to rest were returning. He resolved to seek out someone who could inform him as to the condition and whereabouts of a woman who remained dear to him.

Then, there was Christine. Did he dare tell her what he had just told Anne? Christine had been so good to him the past few weeks she had lived with him, and he felt as though he were betraying her by thinking of dredging up the past. He wanted to look towards the future, but he also wanted Anne to be able to trust him.

No matter what he did or what he said, in his heart, he was being unfaithful to someone.

* * *

><p>Christine was excited to return to the stage. She wouldn't be singing yet, not in any solo roles, at least, but as part of the corps de ballet again. It was a step backwards, Gabriel had admitted, but she had, after all, been gone for nearly three weeks. She had some time to make up for. As she headed for her dressing room, she had a strange foreboding.<p>

She placed a hand on the burgundy wall to steady herself. The dizziness subsided as quickly as it had come. She placed a hand to her forehead and took a few deep breaths before continuing on her journey. The hallway seemed longer than it ever had before. Once she reached her destination, she poured herself a cup of tea and added a lump of sugar and a generous splash of milk.

She told herself that she was merely nervous about performing publicly again, but, in the back of her mind, she feared that her life was about to change once more, and not for the better.

* * *

><p>Mignon was frightfully nervous. She'd never been out with a nobleman before! Luckily, Sorelli had coached her in a few simple behaviours should she be unsure of what to do.<p>

_Keep smiling, even if his jokes are boring. Be interested in what he has to say. Above all, you are there to see and be seen. When you are on the arm of a handsome man, you must act as though you belong there. Let no one tell you otherwise._

She took a deep breath and made sure the little pins were still in the same spot Sorelli's hairdresser had taken such care to secure them. Satisfied at last that her appearance would just have to do, she sauntered out the door to join her dining companions.

"Ah, Mignon, this is Philippe, le Comte de Chagny," Sorelli began the introductions.

"A pleasure, mademoiselle," Philippe murmured as he bowed to kiss the back of her hand. He certainly hoped that his baby brother would not become too attached to this girl. She was supposed to be his companion for dinner and dancing and wherever else the night took them. When he saw the courteous smile Raoul gave Mignon, he felt his worries being laid to rest.


	21. Chapter 21

_**A/N: I don't know what I'd do without Chris Isaak's music.**__** I write far more when I listen to his music. (Yay for productive weeks!)  
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_**Elysse Fray 111: They are cute together, aren't they? And such fun to write this way!  
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_**Rose: No worries there, dear; I couldn't stop writing, even if I wanted to. Far too many plot bunnies hopping through my head.  
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_**Shadowphantomness: Heh, I don't think anyone reading this story has much sympathy for this Raoul . . . which is as intended, actually . . .**_

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><p>Christine waited in front of the mirror to see if Erik would come for her. Rehearsals had gone smoothly, with no pieces of scenery falling or mysteriously moving out of place. She wondered at that, as unusual occurrences were the usual course of business at the Opera Garnier. She also wondered that none of the other girls had told her fanciful tales of <em>le fantôme<em> haunting them or wreaking havoc in the time that she'd not been at the opera house.

As she took down her hair and rearranged it in a more comfortable bun with a few golden curls framing her face, she thought it odd that, during the time when Erik had so rarely left her side, the opera ghost should be almost unheard of. She resolved to make mention of it later to him.

She thought about how she'd changed since she'd met him. Erik had brought out a part of her that she hadn't even known existed. It was as though he had brought her back to life and she hadn't quite understood what life was before. There were times when mere words were not enough to express her emotions, and she had to rely on song to relay her meaning. Part of her still felt like a girl as she was so much younger and inexperienced in the ways of the world than he, but she wasn't nearly the little girl Raoul had known. She sincerely hoped that the young man would never again attempt to gain an audience with her. No matter what had happened all those years ago, or what was said in their times of play, their friendship was a thing of the past, a thing he himself had allowed to die.

And Christine only wanted to be with Erik now. It was Erik who had helped her stop mourning her father, even though Maman had been a great comfort. The truth was that Maman was too close to a parent to have helped her get past her grief; whenever Christine had looked at Maman, she recalled another memory of her father. But Erik had helped her see that she could honour her father's memory without wallowing in misery. It was those memories of all the happy times that would keep him alive in her heart.

And what he had done for her voice was nothing short of a miracle! A voice others had decried as sounding like a rusty hinge was now soothing and full of emotion. She only hoped she might have another chance to utilise that voice publicly in the near future.

She closed her eyes and began singing a verse from an aria that he had written it for her one night after they'd had a silly little argument over her corset. He wanted her to stop wearing them, but she refused to go a day without one. It simply wasn't done! Besides, she had insisted, the corset helped her posture. He had begrudgingly said that she could, at least, not lace them so tightly. Her voice needed room to breathe!

_These ties hold me closer to you  
>Yet they seem to push you away from me.<br>How can I stand right beside you  
>Even when you are as distant as the sea?<br>I pray you come back to me soon  
>And revive the life in my heart.<br>Bring back the love we share,  
>Never again to part.<em>

She opened her eyes as she allowed her voice to fade out and sighed. She wouldn't admit it to Erik just yet, but leaving her corset slightly looser than she had been wearing it before _did_ help her take deeper breaths. But where was he? He had promised he would continue to visit her in her dressing room. What if something had happened to him? "Oh, Erik, where are you?"

The glass suddenly moved, and she was face to face with her angel. The smile she gave him warmed his heart. He all but forgot about the things he'd confessed to Anne earlier that very day and the business of just an hour ago. He hadn't meant to be so late, but some things simply couldn't be rushed. He struggled to steady his breathing without Christine noticing; he didn't like to make her worry. Wordlessly, he held out a gloved hand to guide her through the dark corridor. They walked in silence, hand in hand. He'd neglected to bring a torch with him to test her abilities to walk in such darkness, even though he was there to aid her should she falter. He had to know she might be able to make her way down to his lair should the need arise for her to make the journey on her own. They went at a more leisurely pace than they had before, pausing to feel the wall at certain intervals.

At last, they reached the lake and the boat moored there. Light emanated from across the water and reflected from its surface, casting an eerie glow upon the pair. Erik, in his black finery, fit the very image of a phantom, dark and menacing. Yet Christine found the sight to be a welcome comfort. She knew that, so long as he was beside her, no harm could touch her. For who would dare challenge someone such as him? He was tall and strong and cut quite the dashing figure.

"Did you have a nice visit with Maman today, Erik?" Christine asked when they'd arrived at the house on the lake.

"Yes. We . . . had a long talk this afternoon," he admitted. "She is a charming woman."

"I'm glad you like her. I'd rather hoped you two would get along." Switching topics, she asked curiously, "Do you have plans for us tonight?"

He chuckled at her enthusiasm and curiosity. Her vibrant attitude was contagious. Oh, would that he were that young again! "Would you not like to return to Mme. Valerius's for the night? You should rest after your long day of auditions and rehearsals."

"Oh, I'm sure she'll understand if I stay here with my tutor . . . that is, if my tutor allows it . . ." she remarked with a coy grin.

"Why, mademoiselle," Erik remarked in mock shock. "How could I deny my precious pupil a place to rest her weary head?" He caught her in a firm, yet brief, embrace. "Christine, I really must remove this wretched mask. I've been wearing it all day."

"Yes, of course, Erik. Shall I apply the salve to your skin?" She lifted a tentative hand to his mask and pried it gently away from his face.

Erik sighed at the soft touch of her delicate hand. "Yes, my dear, that would be nice. I have supper waiting on the table for us, as well as a surprise for dessert in the kitchen."

Christine brightened instantly and nearly jumped for joy at the mention of dessert. He'd spoil her rotten if she let him. And, if that made him happy, she would.

* * *

><p>Mignon was surprised to find that she was enjoying Raoul's company, in spite of her earlier trepidation. He made her feel something she'd very nearly forgotten. There was a way that he would gaze into her eyes that reminded her vaguely of . . . she wasn't sure what, but it felt familiar and pleasant. She tried her hardest to follow his story of Arctic expeditions he'd read about, but she still had a bit of trouble with French, especially the more technical terms he tended to use.<p>

"And how long have you been dancing, Mignon?" Raoul finally paused to ask her about herself.

"I . . . a few years, professionally. But I enjoyed it ever since I was a young girl." The second part was a fib. She refused to admit that she scarcely remembered her life before arriving in France a few years previously.

"Really? When did you begin your proper training?" he asked casually.

"Only a few years ago. But I'd had lessons for as long as I can remember. Coming here, to Paris, is an opportunity I never could have dreamed of when I was younger." She flashed him another smile, hoping he would change the subject.

"And the other ballerinas? Have they all been friendly?"

Mignon kept the smile plastered on her face. "I am still new, but they have been. Tell me more, monsieur, about this trip you are planning."

"Oh, there's not much to tell, really. I'm not even sure I will be accepted to join the crew. The captain is quite stern."

"I am sure with your qualifications and experience, you would be accepted anywhere you wanted to be," she remarked with a brief flutter of her eyelashes.

At the next table in the dimly lit restaurant, Sorelli and Philippe managed to carry on their own conversation while maintaining watchful eyes on the younger couple. How long ago had it been that they had begun their little romance? And where was it actually going?

Sorelli, for her part, held no high hopes. She was all too aware that a man in Philippe's position was bound to marry a woman of similar social standing. And she wanted to keep dancing for as long as her body could tolerate it. Her career had another decade, at least, save for any unfortunate accidents.

"Sorelli?" Philippe asked. "What concerns you so?"

She shook herself from her random musings and smiled at him assuredly. "Oh, I was thinking of the changes to the choreography Gabriel made this afternoon. With Christine back, we can perform the second act properly."

Philippe hazarded a glance towards his brother to see what his reaction to hearing about Christine and her mysterious tutor - _suitor?_- was. Nothing. Or perhaps he simply hadn't heard.

The rest of the evening went smoothly enough. Mignon and Raoul seemed to enjoy each other's company, and they did make a handsome couple alongside Philippe and Sorelli. Whether they would continue to be so remained to be seen.

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><p>Christine sighed contentedly as she lowered her fork. Dessert had been a sinfully sumptuous chocolate cake. Schwarzwalder Kirschtorte, Erik had called it.<p>

"Did you like the Kirschtorte, my dear?" Erik asked, already aware of the answer from the look on her face.

"Mmm," she moaned as she wiped crumbs from her lips. "Chocolate cake with cherry liqueur and cherries and cream . . . How could I _not_ like that? I'm just amazed I've never had it before! Or perhaps Maman was worried that it would too easily become my favourite thing to eat!"

Erik couldn't help but chuckle. How did she have that effect on him? He was always happier when she was near. "Yes, my love. It is quite good, but far too extravagant to have very often. We shall save it for special occasions, yes?"

Christine pouted in mock disappointment, then smiled slyly. "Oh, but we have many special occasions to celebrate! Let's see . . . There is the anniversary of the first time you spoke to me through the mirror, the anniversary of the first time I sang the lead in an opera, the anniversary of -"

Erik could not contain his laughter. "I fear that, if you had your way, my sweet, we would have chocolate every day of the week!"

"The better to make you all the sweeter, my angel," she replied, still giggling as she rose to clear the table.

But Erik was quicker. He swiftly stole up behind her and carried her off to the sofa by the fireplace. The chance was one she would not let escape her, and she planted a soft kiss upon his sunken cheek. He sank back into the cushions, Christine comfortably ensconced in his lap.

"Your kisses are all I need to make me sweeter," he murmured before planting a kiss upon her sugared lips. "Your love makes me as gentle as a lamb."


	22. Chapter 22

_"Your love makes me as gentle as a lamb."_ Erik's words continued to echo in his ears. He had not slept since he had laid Christine in her bed. The poor dear had been so exhausted from a day full of rehearsals and their singing lessons and helping him clean up after supper that she had not put up a semblance of a fight when he'd suggested she retire for the night. Or perhaps it was the three generous helpings of cake she had managed to eat! She had barely protested when he had lifted her up in his arms and carried her up the corridor to her room.

She had drifted off to the land of dreams as soon as her head had hit the pillow.

He, on the other hand, was still lying in his own bed, wide awake, hours later. His mind would not stop pulsing with thoughts of the preceding day, especially the soft kiss Christine had given him. Her lips were like delicate honeyed rose petals, sweet and soft and inviting. What a contrast they were against the dry parchment of his own skin and his thin lips!

She was such a good girl.

He was such a wicked man.

How was it that she could look past his hideous face and the lies he'd told her over the past few months? She said she loved him, but did she truly know what love was? Did she comprehend what it meant to love a man such as he was? The way she kissed him spoke of hints of passion beneath the surface, but he could simply be imagining it, merely willing it to be there.

And he loved her enough to make up for any lack of feeling on her part. Even if she didn't love him with all her being, surely he could be a good enough husb-

He had to stop himself. If he continued to think of things such as that, he would surely drive himself mad! _'Or madder than I already am,'_ he thought with a grimace. _'But Christine __calms me, brings me back to sanity. She is far too good to me. And so is Anne.'_

Madame Anne Valerius was now privy to much of his tortured past. Telling her about it had been exceedingly difficult but delightfully cathartic. It was a burden that none should be forced to share with him, no matter how well-intentioned one was. She had chosen to act the part of a shrivener, a confessor, and he had to admit to feeling lighter than he had in some time.

But one does not speak of past evils without remembering them in all too vivid detail. Once the door to his past was opened, he knew it would be some time before he would be able to close it again.

The screams of his victims slowly increased in his mind. He had committed such atrocities that he knew he could never atone for them, even if he lived another hundred years. A tear eked its way out of his eye and fell onto his pillow. He was not worthy of Christine's love! He was a murderer who should have been locked away long ago! If not for Anahita and her kindness, he never would have believed himself to be the least bit human. Too many had called him a demon and a devil and death itself for him to think himself a part of humanity.

He had not deserved Anahita, either. He had already killed more than he cared to count by the time he had set up in Nizhni, and he had been loathe to sully her soft hands with the blood spilled by his.

But Anahita . . . She had seen something in him that had drawn her to him. And she, with her gentle ways, had slowly brought out the good in him. She had taught him how to dance to the very music he had composed when he couldn't sleep. She helped him create music boxes and games and toys to delight the children who frequented his tent. She had made him into someone who was not a monster.

Had that damned furrier not abducted her and sold her to that wretched harem in Persia, he might have settled in Nizhni with her, or perhaps somewhere a bit to the south. Anahita had always liked the spring, when the world was new and alive and rejuvenated. He would not have become the hired torturer and assassin that he was forced to become after the light was gone from his life. So many lives might have been spared.

On the other hand, he reasoned, those were all political prisoners who had died for being dissidents or enemies of the crown. They would have suffered the same fate no matter who had been in charge of re-educations and imprisonments and . . . disappearances.

And there were several buildings that would not, could not have been built had he not been there under the "employ" of various heads of state. No one else could have envisioned such architectural works of art. Those were sites that many now admired. The world had a bit more beauty in it because of him. He looked at it as a way of making up for the hideousness of his own face.

And, had he not eventually found his way back to France and then to Paris, the Opera Garnier would not be the marvel of architecture that it was. Christine might have gone on mourning her father and wasting her best years in the back of the corps de ballet.

With his help, Christine would easily become a star of the stage! He could compose arias for her voice that would make even the angels weep!

His thoughts, however, kept drifting back to his Anahita. He recalled the depths of her eyes, pools of the darkest tea that he could swim in for hours, and her hair, like a great swirl of ink bouncing upon her shoulders. She had been the first to smile on him with something other than pity, and she had been the only one, until Christine, to hold his pale, cold hand with tenderness.

Erik sighed forlornly. Would that he could erase the sins of his past and be the kind of man Christine deserved! Would that he could undo all the evil he had wrought and keep Anahita from having fallen into the clutches of demented regents! Would that -

"Erik?" Christine called from her bedroom. She sounded panicked.

He extricated himself from the twisted sheets and rushed down the hall. He smoothed his sleeping attire before slowly opening the door. "Yes, Christine?"

She gazed up at him sheepishly. "I . . . I had a bad dream. Will you stay with me?"

He cleared his throat nervously and nodded. When he moved towards the chair in the corner of the room, she asked him to sit beside her on the bed.

"It . . . would not be . . . proper," he reminded her.

"We will only be sitting next to each other. Who is here to judge us?" she asked, her eyes full of innocence.

He sighed and relented. As soon as he set himself next to her, Christine cuddled up beside him. It didn't cease to amaze him how she could show him such affection yet maintain her purity.

She was such a sweet girl.

"Tell me what your dream was, Christine," he requested. He hoped that talking about it would help her fall back asleep.

She grimaced. "It . . . I couldn't . . . I was looking for you, but I couldn't find you . . . I wandered all over Paris and still no trace of you! Finally, I came upon you." Her voice broke and she turned her head.

"You found me . . ." he prompted.

She let out a heavy sigh. "I found you . . . in a café . . . with another woman," she admitted quietly.

"Anoth-" Erik was dumbstruck. He couldn't imagine betraying his dear Christine, and yet, she had had some silly dream that had worried her. He pulled her to him again. "There, there, my dearest. You have no need to worry over that ever coming true. You are far too precious to me for me to cause you such harm."

"Oh, but she was beautiful, Erik! With hair as dark as the night sky and a smile that sparkled like starlight!"

He swallowed the lump that had rapidly formed in his throat. Had her subconscious mind conjured an image of a woman from his past? "Come now, Christine, rest. You have a full day tomorrow." _'And I have work to do that you must not witness.'_

She merely nodded and laid her head upon his shoulder and drifted, slowly, back to sleep. She found she slept better knowing he was so near.


	23. Chapter 23

_**A/N: I was going to let this story rest for a couple of more weeks, but I wound up correcting typos and adding to the previous chapter, which gave me the inspiration I needed to get this chapter completed for your enjoyment. ;-)**_

The following morning, Erik lingered over his tea. Was it possible that Christine had dreamt of Anahita? _'No, that could not be!'_ he told himself. It was too remote a possibility to be reality. He had never mentioned his past to her, certainly nothing that would cause her to believe he could ever be unfaithful to her.

"Erik?" Christine asked between bites of scrambled eggs with cheese. "Is anything wrong?" She had more easily put the dream from her mind than he, but her worry lingered still. She feared he might, one day, tire of her and her childish ways and seek out someone more . . . more worldly, more in keeping with his level of intelligence.

'_He deserves someone so much better than silly little me,'_ she thought wistfully. _'But I can try my best to improve myself and show to him that I can be worthy of his love.'_

He cleared his throat. "I am merely thinking of business I must attend to today, my dear." That much was not a lie, but it was not the complete truth. He loathed himself for not being more honest with her. But he did not want to cause her worry, not when she had work to do and a day of dancing ahead of her. She would have to be able to concentrate.

She only nodded, accepting his answer, then turned her attention back to her plate. He was so good to her, and she wanted to be good to him, as well. There were things she wanted to do for him, gifts she wished to purchase that would make him smile . . .

"You are to dance in the corps for the time being, yes?" he queried, if only lack of anything else to say.

"Yes. Monsieur Gabriel said that I must earn my place again, and I have new routines to learn since I was gone for those weeks. But I might be permitted to audition for singing roles again soon."

"Ah, good. I should not like to see your talents go unnoticed."

She smiled at him warmly. His compliments were like gold to her!

"Come, now, my dear, finish your breakfast," he chided. "Practice will begin in," he paused to check his pocket-watch, "forty minutes, and you must not be late."

"Yes, of course, maestro." There was enough gossip without her tardiness adding fuel to the fire.

They finished breakfast in silence, neither wishing to disturb the other with unpleasant thoughts.

* * *

><p>Practice was uneventful. They went over the choreography of a ballet they all knew well but had not performed since the previous season. With recent events having been what they were, a better-known opera and ballet were to be staged this week.<p>

Sorelli was, however, visibly distracted. Even though she had danced the lead in this ballet more than once, she missed a step and fell out of line. Thoughts of Philippe and his sweet words whispered while they had danced had her giddy. But did she dare believe the things he'd promised? He had told her of plans he'd made for them before, and they had never come to fruition.

Nevertheless, she had to admit that she'd told her share of fibs, as well. She would coyly -

"Sorelli! Pay attention, girl!" Gabriel rebuked her harshly. He expected more from her; she was the lead ballerina, after all.

She blushed furiously, then danced throughout the rest of the day without fault or another misstep.

Over lunch, Mignon asked her what the matter was.

"Oh, I was thinking of Philippe. It's silly of me, I know," Sorelli admitted with a grin.

"Ah, not silly at all," she sympathised. "I was thinking of someone, too."

"Raoul?"

"W-well, he did enter my thoughts, of course; he is kind and handsome . . . but there was . . . someone else, long before I came to Paris." She lowered her head, not wishing to divulge too much. Her memories were murky, fractured. All she could recall clearly was that he had had the most sublime voice.


	24. Chapter 24

_**A/N: Nothing to say but Enjoy. It'll be at least a couple of weeks before I have the next chapter ready, though.  
><strong>_

_**PhantomFan01: All will make sense in due course . . .**_

Sorelli gazed across the table at her friend. It was clear from her expression, from the cloudiness in her eyes, that whoever she was thinking of had broken her heart and it still hurt too much to talk about.

Mignon sighed shakily and wiped her eyes. "I don't like to dwell on the past, Sorelli," she stated, lifting her eyes to the other woman. "I would rather focus on the here and now and what actually is than wonder what might have been had things been slightly different."

"That is a good way to live life," Sorelli agreed.

* * *

><p>Erik had many tasks to complete that day, and knowing Christine would be occupied for most of it let him worry less about her. There was the matter of telling the managers what needed to be done, who should be cast in which roles. <em>'Ugh, those men have no ear for music, much less voices,'<em> he thought derisively as he wrote his letters. _'These men have no business running an opera house. They are lucky to have me to help them do their job properly.'_

Then he had to meet with the Fourniers so he could pick up his suits and the new dresses he'd ordered for Christine. He'd asked Mme. Fournier to choose the styles as she had an eye for colour and Erik admired her taste. He only hoped that there was at least one pink dress in the mix; he'd seen Christine wear pink as part of her costumes when she rehearsed ballet, and he liked her in it.

"Ah, Monsieur Utkin!" M. Fournier greeted warmly. "Your suits have just been delivered and are ready for your inspection. Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, thank you, monsieur," he replied as he took a seat. It was so nice to be accepted, to simply sit and chat with someone, even if it was partly due to the added income he provided to the young couple.

* * *

><p>One of the singers from Germany, Liesl, approached Christine after lunch. "I was wondering if I could ask you something. I hope you won't be angered by my question."<p>

"I'll try not to be," Christine offered warily. Liesl was not known for her friendly demeanour. "What did you want to know?"

"I . . . Who is your voice tutor? Would he be willing to take on more students?" she asked slowly.

"Oh, he is . . . an older man who keeps mostly to himself. He is a friend of Mme. Valerius's and . . . I don't know that he would be willing. I could ask him next time I see him if you like, though."

"Would you? You're sure you wouldn't mind? I'd hate to get you in trouble with your teacher."

Christine waved off her worry. "I can simply broach the subject, see if he's open to taking on more besides me. He had such a hard time of it to mold my voice to what it is now that he might be tired of the whole profession," she chuckled briefly.

Liesl smiled back at her. "And he did a wonderful job of it, too! Oh, if he would be willing to help me, even for a few weeks, I would be ever so grateful. But, if he is not, perhaps you could share some of what he taught you?"

"Oh, Liesl, you are a wonderful singer! What is there that I could teach you? Besides, his techniques are . . . a bit strange. I fear I might not pass them along correctly. As I said, I shall ask him later about taking on more students."

"Christine! It's almost time for rehearsal!" little Jammes called from the corridor.

"Coming!" she called back. "If you'll excuse me. I'll let you know what my professor says as soon as I can." Before she could respond, Christine had dashed off to the practice room.

"What an odd girl," Liesl mused aloud.

"Did you ask her?" Jacqueline asked as she sidled up.

"Yes."

"And?" Jacqueline could hardly contain her excitement.

Liesl tilted her head. "She said she'd ask her tutor if he'd take on more students. But she seemed quite reluctant about it."

"Aha! So he really might be her lover as well as professor . . ." Jacqueline's eyes narrowed, wondering who the mysterious, miraculous teacher could be.

* * *

><p>Raoul sauntered down the street, pausing to peruse some floral arrangements. He wondered what kind of flowers Mignon might like. Red said passion . . . Yellow petals meant friendship . . . Perhaps a mixture of colours would be wiser . . .<p>

Once he'd settled on the appropriate blooms, he ventured to another shop to choose just the right vase to present them in. _'Something dark to match her hair,'_ he thought with a smile.

* * *

><p>Christine spent a few minutes stretching at the barre before they started work on the next routine. It was a complicated dance, but one she already knew. Still, she was nervous all afternoon. She hoped Erik would be there, just beyond her dressing room, once rehearsals were over.<p>

She hated to admit it, but her dream of Erik with another woman had unsettled her. The dark-haired woman in her dream had been so sophisticated and elegant, far more than Christine felt she could ever be.

Shaking herself from her insecurities, she went behind the screen in her dressing room and changed out of her practice dress and into one of the lovely gowns Erik had given her. White with emerald green trim, this was one of the simpler dresses in her collection. She applied a touch of colour to her lips then sat and waited patiently.

The knock at the door and an insistent voice pleading for entry startled her out of her pleasant mood.

"Mignon?" Christine was confused by her appearance there. They had hardly spoken in all the time Mignon had been with the Opera Garnier, but her clearly agitated state had her worried. "What's wrong?"

"I'm so confused, Christine. I know we haven't talked much, but I need to confide in someone. I'd talk to Sorelli about this, but . . . I'm sorry. You were getting ready to go out, weren't you?" She shook her head and tried to smile. "I'm getting worked up over nothing!"

"No, no, I was in no hurry. Come, sit. Tell me what's troubling you so."

"It's just that . . . I went to supper with Raoul, the vicomte? And I'd heard you had been friends with him when you were children. I just . . ." She twisted the handkerchief she held clutched in her tanned fingers. "What was he like when you knew him?"

"Raoul? He was very sweet as a boy, as I recall. A bit spoiled, of course, as his sisters and aunts doted on him."

Mignon nodded. She shivered suddenly with the odd sensation that she was being watched by someone other than Christine.

From behind the mirror, Erik was dumbstruck. _'She looks just like Anahita did when we first met!'_


	25. Chapter 25

_**A/N: Wow, we're up to the twenty-fifth chapter . . . and over seventy reviews! I appreciate the feedback!  
><strong>_

_**gravity01: Heh, Kay has no real place in my fics, dear; I've been trying to avoid her influence in this. Your mention of Erik's mother, however, reminded me of something I planned to put in at some point anyway. And, yes, I agree about Christine!**_

_**PhantomFan01: The plot thickens, indeed!**_

It had been quite a long day, and Erik escorted Christine back to the flat for supper with Maman Valerius. Perhaps he rushed her a bit too much, for she gave him more than one irritated look on the way there. He explained his distracted air and lack of appetite that evening as merely being tired after too much work in one day. As rehearsal had been so extensive and gruelling, Christine was happy to call it an early night, as well.

But she secured a promise from Erik that they would all go out for a nice supper soon to celebrate . . . Oh, just to celebrate life and love. And Erik could not say no when she gazed up at him with that sleepy grin of hers.

Once he was back in the house on the lake, he fished a key out of its hiding place in a drawer no one would notice. He trudged over to the far wall and moved the tapestry. He had to steel his nerves before unlocking the door hidden there and entering the small room.

It was more of a closet, really, but it was big enough for the few things he kept there. There were a few trinkets from his time with the Tonkin pirates, jewels he'd smuggled out of Persia and Constantinople, and some of his old masks that were too nicely made to part with them.

What he was there to see, though, were the portraits he'd painted, some completely from memory. There was one of a scene from one of the fairs he'd travelled with, and another of a forest that happened to capture his eye. His breath caught in his throat when he found the one he needed to see, the one for which his model had happily sat for one early autumn evening.

'_Yes, that girl that was with Christine earlier looks very much like Anahita did. They could almost be sisters. I suppose time has blurred my memory a bit.'_

He chuckled at his own foolishness, then tucked the portrait away again. He couldn't help but retrieve another, done from an old memory. The subjects never would have consented to sit for this. Still, he had enjoyed creating it.

He wondered if Christine might like to have her portrait done by him. He had made a few sketches over the past couple of months, of course, but they were simply a way to gaze upon her face when he wasn't conducting a lesson.

Erik still wondered about the girl in Christine's dressing room, though, and if it wasn't all just some bizarre twist of fate that she looked as she did.

_**A/N: Ugh, short, I know. But this scene was floating around in my head, begging to be put in soon. The next chapter will be longer to make up for it, but that also means it will take longer to be completed and posted. Peace and love.  
><strong>_


	26. Chapter 26

_**A/N: Okay, I feel like I should explain a few things about my characterisations; it's rather late in the story for that, I know. I was looking up something POTO-related online last night, and I read that Christine had been Catholic in Leroux's book. Yeah, I smacked my head that I'd forgotten that. However, since I had to make her rather not religious for this story to work the way I want it to, it didn't really matter. She would know the Lutheran services because of the weddings she went to with her father, but there wouldn't (at least in this version) be many Lutherans around her in Paris. Mme. Valerius is older and doesn't really go out much; I made her a little bit like my mother, who has rheumatoid arthritis and can't handle repeatedly rising and sitting and rising, so that's how I explain Anne not attending church services (at least not regularly). I made M. Gabriel the chorus-master as well as the ballet-master for the sake of convenience. There's a choreographer who works for M. Gabriel, but I didn't want to muddle the story with more characters.**_

_**Umm, let's see, what else might not have made sense that I can explain without it being a spoiler? While I use dashes of ALW POTO, it's just for effect because I like the lyrics. As for Kay . . . well, I only read about half of Phantom, but I'm not really using her for inspiration. Hmm, but maybe a spider scene later? Would you want to see that at some point?**_

_**All right, let's get back to the story. This is a few days later . . .**_

"Erik?" Christine looked up from the plate of spaghetti she was relishing.

"Yes, my dear?" He was going through his correspondence, minor issues that he could easily take care of after supper.

She gulped before continuing. "It - uh, it is nearing the anniversary of my father's death."

At the seriousness of her tone, he set down his letters. "And you would like to do something to commemorate the occasion?"

"Y-yes. I thought . . . that is, if you would like to . . . I should very much like to . . . go to leave flowers at his grave . . . in the cemetery at Perros-Guirec."

"Ah . . ." He mulled the idea over in his head. Certainly, he had the funds to finance such a trip for the three of them, but could the opera survive his absence for the time he'd be away? Surely, this would be more than a few days. And Christine would, of course, wish to see some of her old haunts.

He was already planning the trip, yet he hadn't answered Christine! He smiled at his own folly. "Yes, of course, my dear. I shall take care of everything. I shall speak with Anne in the morning."

She grinned, pleased that he was so amenable to the idea of a trip to the sea, then returned to her pasta. The meatballs were quite good and small enough that she didn't have to cut them into smaller pieces.

But something else weighed on her mind. She worried over how to go about asking him. It simply had to be done, she decided. Either he wasn't, and they would have a good laugh that she had thought he could be, or he was and the charade would be over.

"E-erik?" She bit her lip in that way that told him to prepare himself for what she was going to say. "I . . . that is, the other girls in the corps . . . they tell stories . . . and . . ." She stopped, flustered.

He arched an eyebrow curiously. "Stories? What kind of stories?" He hoped they weren't the unseemly sort of stories that he'd overheard some of the stagehands telling. Bawdy tales like that were not for Christine's pristine ears.

"The . . . You _have_ heard of the Opera Ghost, haven't you? I mean, living underneath the opera house and attending performances . . ."

It had never occurred to her that the very box she'd sat in was the box reserved for the Ghost.

Erik was not a man who was easily left at a loss for words. How could he respond without giving himself away? "I," he cleared his throat, "have heard the tales they tell, yes."

She nodded once. "It's just that . . . when I returned to . . . I didn't hear anything of . . . him. And the ballerinas like to gossip! They told me every little thing that had happened while I was away, but no new stories of the Ghost! And it . . . it seemed . . ." Her mouth continued moving though no words escaped her.

"And you wondered . . ." he prompted.

She found her resolve. "Erik, are you the Phantom of the Opera house?"


	27. Chapter 27

"Erik, are you the Phantom of the Opera house?"

Her question hung heavily in the air around them. It was oppressive, even more so than anything he could have imagined. He was having trouble breathing. She had figured it out, the clever girl. Oh, he'd known that her naivete had been a little act, a way to keep others from getting too close, but he was proud of her for coming to that conclusion on her own nonetheless. Her eyes, so guileless, were still trained on his unmasked face.

"Why would you think I am, Christine?" he asked, attempting to regain self-control. He felt exposed.

She stared down at her hands, limp by her plate on the table. "It was a foolish idea, wasn't it? But you are so brilliant, and the Phantom is said to be quite conniving and manipulative. It . . . was only . . . You were with me the entire time I lived here . . . and there were no tales of strange happenings during that time . . . It seemed to me to make sense if you were." She felt so like a little girl who still believed every fairy tale she heard. And, now, he surely thought her terribly immature!

"That would make sense, would it not?" His eyes glowed with mischief. Perhaps now he had an equal, someone to help him be in two places at once. No, he couldn't involve this sweet girl in such seedy matters. "You are far smarter than those aboveground give you credit for. You've not told any others of what you have postulated, correct?"

She jerked her head up so suddenly, he feared she might snap something if she weren't careful. "No! Of course not. They think so little of me as it is. I could not have them laughing at me for claiming to know who the Opera Ghost is, or even voicing such thoughts as I've had. Worse, the managers might think me mad, or in league with him . . . that is, with you . . ."

"Tricky girl," he smirked. "You see more than you let on. Why did you not ask me of this sooner?"

She smiled, relieved that he'd not laughed at her. "I wasn't sure how you'd react. It was such a . . . strange idea . . . that my angel should also be a ghost, that my love could be an extortionist."

"Extortionist?" he feigned umbrage. "Oh, my dear, I simply instruct the managers as to what they should do . . . who should be cast in which roles. Is it wrong to expect payment for such services as I provide?" He clutched at his heart melodramatically.

She lifted the back of her hand to her forehead and rolled her eyes back. "Oh, forgive me for wounding your pride so, monsieur!"

They shared a hearty chuckle.

"Tell me, Erik, how did you become the Phantom?"

"It is . . . not a terribly exciting tale, I fear. I merely preyed upon already superstitious minds and made . . . predictions as to what would occur. It was not very difficult to convince the first managers - those that were here before Debienne and Poligny - of this place being haunted. There were enough stories of what I'd done while the building was being constructed that it was easy enough for them to believe me to be a real spectre. They - the first managers - had been involved in theatre long enough to know better than to tempt fate. Debienne and Poligny took a bit of convincing, but not much. A few well-timed . . . accidents . . . but Moncharmin and Richard have proved more . . . resistant . . . to my suggestions."

She nodded again, wondering if he'd had something to do with Carlotta falling ill that night a month before. Would he really have gone so far just to give her a chance to be in the limelight for a moment?

* * *

><p>The following morning, as promised, Erik went to Anne Valerius's flat to speak with her about a trip to Perros-Guirec. Her face lit up at the prospect of seeing her old home.<p>

"Oh, perhaps we might be able to procure the cottage we rented before we moved to Paris! That would be nice, but I wonder if it wouldn't make Christine sad to, well, to be surrounded by all those memories."

"I daresay, Anne, that she will be surrounded by memories either way."

"Ah, I believe you are right, my dear boy. I trust that you shall take good care of things."

"Yes, I hope so. Thank you for your help, Anne. Shall I have lunch delivered, my lady?"

She smiled at his polite formality. "Yes, I would appreciate that. Volanges is not feeling all that well today and Engström has had to go out of town to tend to her ill sister."

"Should I fetch a doctor for Mlle. Volanges?" Erik couldn't help but worry.

"That's quite all right. Doctor Vronsky was here last night; he gave her some medicine that made her sleepy."

"I do hope she'll be well in time for our trip to Perros-Guirec." For some inexplicable reason, he didn't feel right about leaving the young woman, so close in age to his precious Christine, alone for so much time.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure she will be. The sea air should do her good."

"It should do us all some good, I think."

* * *

><p>Planning for four people to go to the seaside village was more difficult than he'd imagined it would have been.<p>

Purchasing a carriage was the simplest part. Then there was the matter of hiring a driver who wouldn't ask too many questions and did what he was told. There was the issue of renting a cottage near enough to the cemetery that Anne would not have too long to walk but not so near as to upset Christine. And it should have a view of the shore so they could have the music of the waves crashing while they enjoyed breakfast. And it should be roomy enough to keep Erik from feeling claustrophobic.

Bad things happened when he felt trapped.

It should have been a simple enough task for him to find a place like that, but it wasn't. The best he could do was a house that was too big to be called a cottage and was a bit farther from the cemetery than he might have chosen.

He'd have to get one of those wheeled chairs, then, just in case.

And, really, a house that was larger than what they actually needed was better than one too small. It would show Anne that he would be capable of providing Christine with anything she might need throughout their life together. Anything she needed, anything she wanted, and still have enough left over to provide for her should something happen to him.

He'd have to teach her how to defend herself on this trip, he determined. She was strong enough from her years of dancing and wandering the Swedish countryside with her father, but he wanted to make sure she would not fall victim to anyone. Perhaps he would teach little Volanges, as well.


	28. Chapter 28

_**A/N: Yes, I know, it's been a while! I took a little break from fanfiction rather than try to force it; at least I got plenty published at Helium in the meantime. I hope this pleases you all until I can get things going here again.**_

* * *

><p>"Oh, Erik, this place is marvellous!" Christine ran across the house to the porch where she could see the sea.<p>

The driver grinned at her childlike enthusiasm as Erik tipped him. "If you'll not require my services this evening, monsieur, I shall take my leave."

"Very well, Martin. I have already made arrangements for supper and breakfast. You will be at your sister's house, oui?"

"Oui, monsieur. If you need anything, we will be only too happy to assist you," he acknowledged as he bowed slightly. "Bonsoir."

"Bonsoir." Erik joined Christine out on the terrace. It really was a magnificent view, with the waves crashing on the shore not far from where they stood and the sunset casting a miasma of colour across the sky above them. "Do you really like it, my dear?"

"Oh, yes, Erik! This is not far from the cottage where we spent that last summer with Poppa," her voice drifted off as she recalled those long-ago days, when she was still so young and carefree.

Erik mentally cursed himself. He'd rather hoped that it would not bring up bitter memories for her to be here, that the house he'd chosen would -

She laid a hand on his arm, pulling him from his bleak thoughts. "It is lovely here, Erik," she murmured. "I can almost feel my father here. It's quite comforting." She cast her clear blue eyes up at him and smiled wistfully.

He placed his own gloved hand atop hers. "If it makes you happy, that is all that matters to me. Supper will be delivered from a bakery just down the street. We should have time to freshen up and relax a bit before then." He turned to Anne, seated at the little table off to the side. "Is this cottage to milady's liking?" he asked with a bow of his head.

"Mais oui, monsieur," she inclined her head in response. "The view is really quite remarkable. And the scent of the sea air is even more invigorating than I recalled." She turned her face back towards the crashing waves, inhaled deeply, and smiled contentedly. "You have chosen even better than I ever could have imagined, by dear boy."

"It truly is wonderful, here, M. Utkin," Volanges added with a glance around her. "Thank you ever so much for allowing me to come along!"

"It is my pleasure to be able to arrange this little trip for all of us," he replied with another slight bow. He only hoped there would be nothing to disturb them here. They all needed a bit of rest and relaxation for a few days, away from the busy city and all their usual responsibilities.

* * *

><p>Christine awoke the following morning with a smile on her face. Knowing that Erik was in a room just a few steps away from her made her feel so wonderfully safe. She couldn't help but feel surrounded by love again. A giggle bubbled up from her centre.<p>

"And what, pray tell, has my love giggling at this early hour?" Erik inquired from the open doorway, a smile playing upon his own lips.

"I was just thinking how fortunate I am to have such wonderful people in my life," she answered from her cocoon of blankets and pillows. "And how wonderful that I am in love with a man who treats me as well as you do."

"Ah, my sweet, it is I who am fortunate to have met you and Anne and Mlle. Volanges! You all have taught me much that I did not know before. Come, I shall get breakfast started while you dress."

"I won't be long, my love," she promised, already extricating herself from the bedsheets.

Once she made her way to the kitchen, the scents of brewing coffee, fresh bread, and cooking eggs greeted her.

"Ah, there you are, my dear. Would you be so kind as to slice some cheese?"

"Yes, of course, my sweet. Everything smells so scrumptious! Maman and Suzette will join us in a few minutes."

Erik nodded without turning. He didn't want to risk breaking an egg yolk while he flipped it. "There is also a basket of fruit, if you wish to have some with breakfast, Christine, as well as some sausages warming in the oven."

"Oh, Erik, you spoil me so!"

"Yes, indeed, he does! But that is a good quality in a man," Mme. Valerius greeted the pair as she entered.

Suzette merely grinned. She hoped she could find a man someday who loved her the way M. Utkin adored Christine. There was such pure love in his eyes whenever he glanced at his lady-love that none could doubt the depth of feelings there.


	29. Chapter 29

_**A/N: At last, a new chapter! I had some stuff that needed taking care of, but now I can give you more of this story.**_

After a luxurious breakfast and some time lingering and chatting over café au lait, the four ventured out for a walk to the cemetery where Messieurs Daaé and Valérius were buried. On the way there, Christine and Suzette gathered a few wild-flowers growing along the path.

Erik hung back to walk alongside Anne, who commented, "It's good to see Christine so happy again. She was so miserable and lonely after her father passed that I worried over her health. You, my dear boy, have brought the sparkle back into her eyes!"

"It is . . . nothing that she has not done for me, Anne. She really is an extraordinary young woman. As is Suzette, from what I can see." He glanced ahead at the aforementioned young women and couldn't hide the smile that spread across his face.

"Yes, they've been friends ever since Suzette came to work for us; that was just after we moved to Paris and my dear husband had taken ill himself. It was good to see Christine able to talk to someone her own age again."

Erik cleared his throat uncomfortably. He wanted desperately to ask about that summer they had spent in Perros, before Monsieur Daaé had met his end, but he didn't want to seem unnecessarily jealous over something that had happened so many years ago. "What was that summer like, Anne? Was Christine's father happy . . . before . . ?" He let his question hang in the air.

"Oh, yes, quite. He said this place reminded him of home. The air here is so clean and the skies are a remarkable blue, very like Uppsala. If he'd been able to handle the journey back across the sea, we would have happily taken him back north. But, alas, his doctors told us the best thing would be to make him as comfortable as possible and travel as little as was absolutely necessary. The motion, you see, aggravated him."

Erik nodded. He knew all too well how the ocean's choppiness could make one feel.

"And then came the day that Christine's red scarf was blown into the sea. It was terribly blustery that day, and she simply couldn't keep her hold on it! Oh, she was quite distraught over losing it, but a boy, about her age, walked up - marched purposefully, I should say - and declared that she needn't weep, for he would fetch it for her. He was a kind boy, though rather accustomed to getting his own way at all times, as we would soon learn. Oh, but it did us all good to have him and his aunt for company. There weren't all that many people here at the time; at least, not that were willing to take to socialising with newcomers."

"Oh, I see. They all had their own little . . . groups formed already?"

"Heavens, yes, and Raoul and his aunt - my memory fails me as to her name - were new here, as well, and were just as pleased to have someone to talk to about music and literature and the stories Alvis and my Enric would tell." Anne sighed nostalgically. "It was a wonderful summer."

_**A/N: Short, I know, but I'm trying to get back into the groove of this, so to speak. This Texas summer heat doesn't really help matters any, either. Ah, well, I'm aiming for another chapter by this weekend. **_


	30. Chapter 30

_**A/N: I know I'd said I had wanted to get more posted here before the month was out, but I just got so busy with work.**_

Erik couldn't stop thinking about what Anne had told him about "that lovely summer" so many years ago. He didn't have such happy memories to look back on, only pain and suffering. Even the brief joyful moments with Anahita were marred by the knowledge that she befell a horrid fate because of him.

No, he had decided long ago that it was better to think of the present and not dwell on the past or hope for the future. He only wound up disappointed when he did either.

He glanced over at Christine, who looked so seraphic sitting by the fire and reading a story to Anne while Suzette mended a hem on a dress.

For the first time, he felt as though he could be happy, truly happy.

* * *

><p>Raoul wasn't sure what to make of Mignon. One minute, he found her sweet and endearing; the next, he thought her an annoying little girl who asked too many questions.<p>

Oh, he enjoyed her company well enough when she was listening intently to what he told her, but there were times her voice was just utterly grating. He wasn't even sure why that was!

He'd asked Philippe what he thought of Mignon, and he'd said he found her quite charming. "Perhaps not the type of girl you settle down with, but nice enough to pass a pleasant evening" was how he'd so tactfully put it.

Raoul sat back and wondered at that comment. Settling down wasn't what he'd had in mind when he had talked to Philippe, but, since then, it was all he could think about.

He had to admit, seeing Christine that night when she'd sung so beautifully for the retiring managers had stirred so many memories for him. He recalled the girl he'd spent so many exuberant hours running through fields with and her father telling them all those fascinating stories of the dark northern regions.

It was those very stories that had sparked his interest in venturing north. Oh, it wasn't to seek out goblins and such, of course, but his curiosity and sense of adventure had been piqued during those nights by the fire with the little blonde-haired girl with the clear blue eyes.

Part of him longed for those long ago days, back when they were young and carefree and feeling the first blush of childhood love.

* * *

><p>Philippe couldn't sleep. He pushed aside the covers and lit the lamp by his bed. He sighed wearily. He had an early meeting with a business associate, and it simply would not do to show up tired or late.<p>

He decided to venture downstairs to the library to fetch a book. He hoped reading something trite would help make him dr-

'_What's this?'_ he wondered at the light coming from a door that had stayed ajar. _'Raoul still awake? I think I'll just see what's kept him up at this hour.'_

He scratched at his younger brother's door before opening it farther. "Anything wrong, Raoul?"

But he barely turned from the window he was staring out of. He seemed a statue, standing so rigidly with his arms crossed and his suit perfectly hanging from his body. "No, nothing's wrong, Philippe. I'm just thinking."

"It seems to me you are doing much of that lately."

Raoul made no sound or movement to affirm or deny his observation.

"Well, I'm off to bed, then. I have a meeting in the morning. Do try to get some rest, eh, brother." Philippe closed the door softly and headed back to bed. He couldn't help but wonder what weighed so heavily on Raoul's mind that it would keep him up so late.


	31. Chapter 31

_**A/N: It's such a relief to have figured out what was causing my little problem that was delaying new chapters. Now that I'm putting pen to paper first instead of just tapping out the words on the keyboard, I feel more connected to my writing once more.**_

_**Anyway, here's the next chapter. I hope you enjoy it.  
><strong>_

* * *

><p>Raoul was still standing by the window, arms crossed rigidly in front of his chest, when the sun began to peek over the horizon. A long night of soul searching had, at last, yielded some answers. He was glad to have an older brother to go to for advice about women.<p>

Women certainly were perplexing creatures!

Yes, he did enjoy taking Mignon out for the evening. The time he spent with her was pleasant enough, but she possessed qualities that made it difficult for him to imagine spending his life with her.

There was something about her voice, he'd finally realised, that grated on him. The nuances and lilt of it were just a little too perfect for his liking.

It was maddening.

If he could get her to not speak so much while they were out and about, he'd be able to tolerate her company - and the envious glances cast their way - until he joined the crew for his journey north.

Once he had satisfied his lust for travel and discovery, then he could think of finding a beautiful lady to be his wife and mother of his children, as was befitting his stance in society.

He just had to make sure she knew her place.

* * *

><p>"Good, Suzette!" Erik called out in encouragement as she sparred with Christine.<p>

They'd spent the morning in vigorous mock swordplay using sturdy tree branches that had been lying in the yard.

"Keep your knees limber, Christine," he reminded gently. "Yes! Just like that! Excellent counter!" He was pleasantly surprised at how quickly the two young women had learned to parry and thrust, but he supposed Suzette's years of doing housework had made her strong. He was aware, of course, of how lithe Christine was from her time as a member of the corps de ballet.

Still, he was proud of them both for having picked up the manoeuvres he'd taught them so enthusiastically. He was certain they could learn to defend themselves without weapons just as swiftly.

* * *

><p>That same afternoon, back in Paris, Mignon heard a knock at the door of her flat. She half-expected it to be Raoul, but she was relieved to find a courier with a parcel for her.<p>

She scurried back to her kitchen to continue her meagre midday meal. She hoped that whoever had sent her a package and a letter had good news for her.

She could certainly use some good news now.

"_Ma cherie Mignon,"_ the letter began affectionately. _"I do hope this letter finds you in good health. I only just yesterday heard of an accident someone had along the same route you were taking to get to Paris. No one with whom I've spoken had any idea as to who was involved or how severe the accident was, so I can only pray it wasn't you._

_I've not heard from you since before you were scheduled to arrive, so I can only surmise that rehearsal and preparations for the next production are gruelling and hectic and leave with little free time._

_In any case, I shall be departing for France in a few days' time. My doctors have, at long last, deemed me healthy enough to withstand such a journey._

_I have included a few of your things, which I imagine you'll be happy to see, as well as a bank book for the account I've set up for you._

_I trust you'll have everything in order by the time I arrive._

_With all love and best hope for the future,_

_Your mother,_

_A. H. Kanavinski_

Some spark of a memory flashed through her mind as she reread the letter. The insignia at the top of the page seemed comfortingly familiar.

'_My mother will be here soon,'_ she thought with a bemused grin. Mignon was fairly sure she'd not been in any accident en route to Paris.

She had, however, taken a rather nasty spill during rehearsal one day. She couldn't remember much of it - it was all a blur to her - but she'd been told later that a piece of scenery had fallen while it was being set up.

"_The Phantom's playing tricks,"_ someone had joked after it had been determined that Mignon was not seriously injured. She had, of course, been instructed by both the doctor and the managers to take several days off to avoid causing herself further harm. After all, they couldn't very well have one of their up-and-coming prima ballerinas taking such risks.

Physically, she had suffered no ill effects beyond the mild headaches that had, she was happy to know, decreased in frequency as well as severity over the past few weeks. She worried about her lack of memory, though, especially with her mother on her way.

Fortunately, one of the items she had sent her was a diary Mignon had apparently kept for some years. There would be time for her to read it later that night, though; she had to get back to Opera Garnier for a costume fitting!


	32. Chapter 32

_**A/N: Yikes, over a month since my last update here! I do apologise, but a lack of the mood necessary had impaired my ability to delve back into fanfiction.  
><strong>_

Once rehearsals were over for the day and the costume fittings were completed, Mignon rushed back to her flat. She couldn't contain her excitement at the prospect of spending the evening relaxing and reading the diary she'd written over the years. It would be so nice to know what her life had been like before she'd come to Paris! She held high hopes that the words she'd committed to those pages would help jar her memory. There was far too much that was a mere blur to her mind's eye.

She sighed with relief once she was out of her corset and all those petticoats. The simple dress she wore to lounge around in was a welcome change. Just as she was settling in with a cup of strong tea, there was a knock at the door.

She let out an exasperated huff of air and smoothed her skirt before opening the door. _'Whoever this is had better have a good reason for interrupting my one quiet evening at home. I need my rest so I can perform tomorrow!'_

"Raoul?! What are you doing here?" she asked in surprise. With the way he'd acted the last evening they'd spent together, she hadn't expected to see him so soon, if ever again.

"I've come to take you to supper, of course! A little celebration before your return to the stage. I was calling after you, but you left the opera house in such a hurry, I suppose you didn't hear me. You certainly must be feeling better to have gotten here so fast! I could scarcely keep up with you," he teased.

"I wanted to get home quickly because I . . . I wasn't feeling well," she fibbed.

His face fell, betraying his concern for her health. "I'll fetch a doctor for you, then," he offered.

"No! No, that won't be necessary." Thinking quickly, she continued with something he would have to believe. "I mean I was tired. From rehearsing all day. That's all. I shall be fine for tomorrow's performance."

"Then what you need is food," he insisted. "Come, I'll take you to my townhouse! My servants will see to it that you rest and have anything you desire."

"No, Raoul," she countered a bit too harshly. She shook her head at her own actions. "That is, I'm not hungry. And it wouldn't do for me to have a heavy meal the night before a performance. Really, it's sweet of you to be concerned, but I just want to rest." She made a show of stifling a yawn. "Good evening, M. le Vicomte."

He opened his mouth to protest that she could surely sleep better in one of his guest bedrooms, with someone to attend to her needs, but found that she had already shut the door. He was growing increasingly frustrated at doors being closed in his face!


	33. Chapter 33

Erik was quite easily dodging blows from both Christine and Suzette; it was excellent exercise for all three of them. He had to admit, if only to himself, that he was beginning to have trouble catching his breath. He really had been relaxing too much since that evening he had formally introduced himself to Christine!

"All right, I think," he paused to inhale deeply a couple of times, "I think that's enough for this morning. What's say we take a bit of a rest?"

"Oh, but we were having such fun, Mons- Erik," Suzette pouted melodramatically. She wiped the sweat from her brow and went over to the table on the patio for a glass of water. They _had_ been going at it rather vigorously that morning, though she greatly appreciated how he treated her more as an equal and less as a servant.

"That _was_ fun, Erik!" Christine giggled. "Come, let's go sit in the shade for a while." She worried that his mask was chafing against his skin. "Suzette, would you fetch some fruit, please?"

"Yes, of course." Sensing that Christine wanted a few moments alone with her paramour, she added, "I shall go check on Madame and see if she would care to join us, as well."

"Take your time," Erik murmured.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Christine reached over and eased the mask from his face. "There, better?" she asked as she dabbed at his skin with a cool, damp cloth.

"Much better, my dear," he hummed appreciatively. "You are such a sweet girl to tend to me this way."

Christine couldn't stifle her smile. He looked so peaceful reclining there with his eyes closed, face towards the sky, his nearly non-existent lips upturned in a lazy little grin. "You are such a beautiful man."

His hands reached up to grasp hers. "Don't tease me, Christine. I know I am not pleasant to look upon." He kept his eyes firmly shut to avoid what he was certain was her smirk.

"Oh, come now, Erik! Everything about you is beautiful. Whatever lies in your past matters not to me. You are an incredible composer, a magnificent teacher. And I have told you that I cherish your face, have I not?"

He exhaled. "Yes, you have, my dear. When one is told his entire life that one is a monster, it becomes very difficult to believe an angel could ever find him beautiful. That she could look upon his visage without disgust or fear . . . or even dare to touch her heavenly lips to -"

He was silenced by her gentle kiss. On a sudden impulse, he pulled her into his lap and held her close. A few wisps of her flaxen hair had come loose from the bun at the nape of her neck to tickle his cheek.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of him, earthy from their earlier tumbles in the grass, but undeniably him beneath the hint of cologne he wore. "Is this what heaven is like, my angel?" she asked dreamily.

"You _are _my heaven, Christine. I could spend the rest of my life here with you." A thought struck him. "Would you be happy living here? Later, I mean, after you've retired from the stage?"

"I could be happy anywhere, as long as I'm with you." She felt herself drifting off to sleep in his arms.

"I'm going to marry you one day, Christine Daaé," he whispered into her hair.

She hummed dreamily and snuggled a bit closer into his arms.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: I'm afraid that's where I'm going to leave it, dearies. I'm burned out, it seems. It's a pity, too, since I had an idea for - no, I won't mention it. I tried writing it, but it refused to be written.**_


	34. Chapter 34

_**A/N: I couldn't leave things as they were, so I finally sat down last night to begin to tie up the loose ends. (I know, evil of me to have left it where I did before, but my muse had utterly abandoned me for a while!) I'm hoping to have this story properly finished up by the end of the year.**_

_**Happy holidays and season's greetings!**_

_**Back in Paris . . .**_

There was a bit of commotion at the opera house when Erik and Christine returned from seeing Mme. Valerius and Suzette home. The pair made use of the secret corridors to avoid adding to the excitement.

When they had reached a suitable spot from which to eavesdrop and watch the goings-on, Christine heard her paramour's breath hitch in his throat. Despite the mask, she could see the hurt confusion in his eyes. She kept silent, of course, until they were once again downstairs in the parlour in the house on the lake.

"That woman - Mignon's mother - was quite something, wasn't she? Her clothes nearly outdid La Carlotta's!"

"Hm? Oh. Yes, yes. Quite," he replied distractedly.

"Erik? Are you -" She let out a sigh. "It's been a long day. I think I shall go to bed."

He stared into the flames dancing in the fireplace, deep in thought. _'She resembled Anahita so much, yet she was so different from the woman I remember. I suppose her illness and the passing years could have - Did Christine say she was going to bed?' _"Christine?" he called out tentatively.

She poked her head through the doorway after a moment. "Oui, mon cher?"

"I am sorry, my dear. I am weary from our journey. You said you wished to go to bed?"

She smiled sleepily and nodded.

"I'll be in shortly, my sweet. I just want to make sure this fire's warm enough." He spent nearly half an hour stoking the fire and adding enough logs to ensure it would last through the entire night. He wondered at that face, so familiar yet so foreign to him, and the mannerisms, while graceful and refined, lacked a certain fluidity.

He strolled to his bedroom and quickly changed for bed. He had to clear his head or he wouldn't be getting any rest. So what if that were Anahita at the party? She was married and had a child! She was obviously doing well and didn't need some corpse from her past interfering with her life now.

And he was with Christine now, and they were planning to marry. No, this other woman, whoever she was, didn't matter.

* * *

><p>Arina stirred her tea while Mignon gushed about the party the managers had thrown for the patrons. It was good to see her daughter so happy, especially considering the dreadful accident that had befallen her so shortly after her arrival.<p>

". . . and wasn't La Carlotta's dress absolutely exquisite? She had the fabric imported from Italy! And Sorelli! Isn't she a remarkable dancer? Oh, I knew you'd like her once you saw her on stage. It was such a pity, though, that Christine Daae couldn't be here. It was the anniversary of her father's passing a few days ago, so she went to visit his grave. But she has a wonderful voice and she'll be back tomorrow. And -"

Arina held up her hands and chuckled. "My dear, there will time enough for you tell me all about her. _Tomorrow._ Tonight, you should get some rest. We've had rather a busy day, yes?"

Mignon had paused mid-pirouette while her mother spoke; now, she pouted but nodded. "You're right, Mother. All the excitement of the evening has me quivering!"

"Yes, indeed," she concurred. "But we have an early start tomorrow, so we must both get some sleep."

* * *

><p>Christine was in bed, nestled underneath the covers and writing in her diary, when Erik joined her in her room. She was relieved to see that he'd removed the mask and dabbed his soothing balm on his skin already.<p>

"Feeling better?" she asked.

He cleared his throat self-consciously. "Yes. I suppose seeing all those people - all that noise - was a - a shock to my senses after the time we spent in Perros."

She grinned. "It is quite different. It was nice to get away, wasn't it?"

"Very. Shall I put out the light?"

"Yes, please."

The following morning, Christine awoke dark and early far beneath the streets of Paris. She didn't dare move for fear of rousing Erik, whose head rested quite adorably on her shoulder. The clock on the mantle chimed six. A low hum sounded from Erik's golden throat. His chaste angel continued the melody and stroked his balding head.

"Ah, what bliss to open one's eyes and see an angel and hear her heavenly song!" he whispered, terrified he might find this nothing more than some enchanted dream.

"'Tis exquisite joy to wake with my beloved Phantom by my side," she murmured affectionately.

"Shall we go out for breakfast or stay in this morning?"

"Mmm, let's stay in. I have to be at rehearsal at eight, and I mustn't be late my first day back."

"You're absolutely right, my dear. We both have full days ahead of us. But we can't get anything done unless we get out of bed," he chuckled.

Christine let out a lazy moan while she stretched. "All right, time to -" A yawn interrupted her motivating speech. She sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, then pushed the covers away.

Erik, she noticed, had fallen back asleep.

"I'll wash up and get breakfast started. You rest, my love."

She had dressed and brewed his strong tea when he joined her in the dining room. He cut quite the dashing figure, standing there in her doorway with his cloak swirling around him and his black mask covering the better part of his face.

_Le Fanto__me._

She couldn't hide the blush that crept up her face. _'How does he always have that effect on me? I feel like such a silly little girl in the presence of such greatness - but he _is_ my maestro, my angel, my love. He saved me from the dreariness of my own misery.'_

It took Erik more than a moment to catch his breath. _'She is an angel. An absolute angel. What could she possibly see in a demon such as I am? Ah, but angels are so pure to save the evil from their own fates, however well-deserved.'_

They ate breakfast in comfortable silence for several minutes until Christine asked, out of sheer curiosity, what business he had to take care of.

"Just dropping off my instructions to the managers, checking on scenery, that sort of thing. Nothing terribly exciting. Did you sleep well last night, my dear?"

"Oh, yes, wonderfully. You?"

"Heavenly," he remarked, his eyes glowing.

* * *

><p>Arina had had trouble sleeping and so had awoken before the dawn. She flipped through a worn photo album, reliving days long gone by. So many years had passed, and no one knew of the life she had once lived. She could tell herself that it was all behind her, had nearly convinced herself of that on several occasions, but the truth was that her past was never all that far from her thoughts.<p>

True, she was a long way from home and a far cry from her origins; it didn't mean, however, that who she was inside had changed all that much in the ensuing years.

Once upon a time, she had dreamed of being a dancer. An unfortunate accident had quashed all those hopes. Now, here she was, several years and a whole continent later, and she was a patron of an opera house.

If she couldn't be on the stage, she reasoned, she could at least enjoy being part of the production process. The managers had been kind enough to invite her to watch the day's rehearsals, as well.

When she noticed the time, she called out for her daughter to rise. Mignon called back sleepily that she was already awake.

* * *

><p>The morning went uneventfully. The chorus ran through the entire repertoire for the evening's performance and some new choreography. La Sorelli was thoroughly pleased to have a prominent solo.<p>

Erik stalked around the offices and deposited his notes to the managers. He hadn't been gone for very long, so business had not suffered in his absence. Still, it was always prudent to remind them who really ran things.

He also had some gifts for Mme. Giry to thank her for being such a kind and unintrusive box attendant. That would have to wait until he attended the performance that evening as she was, at the moment, arranging flowers in the corridors leading to the box seats. She was very good at her job, varied as it was, and he appreciated the pride she took in doing it so well. And her daughter, the dark-haired little Meg, was sure to be royalty in due time.

He just had to find the right nobleman to set in her path . . .

For now, though, he had to keep an eye on the stagehands and their wandering hands. The dancers needed to maintain their focus without having to worry about some lecher making a grab.

Besides, the stagehands had better to do with making sure no pieces of scenery fell over. They wouldn't want some ghastly accident to befall any of them as Joseph Buquet had suffered.


	35. Chapter 35

_A/N: Okay, I finally figured out how to close out this story. I knew, way back when I left off a year and a half ago (eek!), the who and the what, but the little details evaded me . . . until now. At long last, I can lay this story to rest, with Erik's words, as it should be._

_One week later_

"That was a wonderful supper after the gala, wasn't it, Erik?" Christine asked over her shoulder as she removed her jewellery.

Erik smiled behind his mask. "Yes, it was, my dear. Quite . . . enlightening."

"You and Mignon's mother certainly seemed to get along well," she murmured.

He caught her eye in the mirror. "She is the sister of someone I used to know," he explained. "Someone who was quite dear to me."

"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow.

Carefully, he removed his mask. He'd worn it all day, and it had begun to chafe during the evening's festivities. At least it allowed him to look like an ordinary man. That was its saving grace.

"You know I lived in Nizhni-Novgorod for a time, that I performed at the fair there. What I never told you was that . . . I had a friend. She was very kind, as you are. She loved to dance in the moonlight, wild and free. She didn't care about my face, either."

Christine sat and watched him, hanging on his every word. She loved to hear about his past, even the unpleasant parts, and even the parts that made her twinge with jealousy.

He got caught up in the memories, and his eyes saw the tent where he'd once performed his feats while Anahita danced.

"She was magnificent. The way she'd twirl and flourish and charm the onlookers. She made me feel . . . as though I could do anything . . . even be handsome. But she was taken, abducted while I was away on some business in a neighbouring town. I never forgave myself for that, for not taking her with me. I learned, months later, that she'd been taken to Persia; I knew not the exact location or who had done this vile thing.

"When the daroga - you've seen him puttering about backstage often enough - sought me out, I took the opportunity with the intent of finding her and securing her safety. I did horrible things in Persia, Christine! Things I wish you never to know about. The little sultana, I called her - the Shahenshah's favourite wife. Oh, yes, he had more than one wife to call his own.

"She had a bizarre sense of entertainment. She liked to see people suffer. I'll spare you the gory details, for they are loathsome.

"I found that Anahita had been taken to the harem to be trained to become the Shah's next wife. I could not let that happen. I knew what became of his younger wives when the little sultana grew jealous. Unfortunately, I was too late. She had already been poisoned."

Christine clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. How horrible to see someone one cared about treated such a way!

"It was a slow-acting poison; it required multiple doses over the course of several weeks to be fatal. It would be a drawn-out and agonising death unless a cure could be found. I did what I could for her, and the daroga helped me get her out of the palace. A troupe was passing through the area, and I paid them handsomely to take her where she could be treated. My death had already been ordered, and I could not remain in Persia any longer.

"That was when I made my way to Constantinople; I offered my services as an architect and . . . performer. I was unable to discover whether Anahita had lived or perished . . . until tonight. The troupe took her to a hospice, where she was treated remarkably well. She lived, recovered from her maladies, travelled with them to Greece. That's where she found her sister. She lives in Italy now, married to a count who loves her dearly."

Christine, relieved that her tale had a happy ending, rose and crossed the room to embrace her Erik. "And us? Where will we live after we are married? Perhaps we could travel to Italy to visit your old friend?"

He chuckled. She was such a sweet girl. "After we are married, we can live anywhere you wish, my angel. I will be happy just to hear you sing every night."

**Finis**

_A/N: Thank you so so so much for all the feedback and words of encouragement throughout the time I spent writing this! That you enjoyed this enough to review means more than I can adequately express._  
>And, if you want to read my non-fanficcy-wiccy, wibbly-wobbly stuff, (shameless self-promotion), I've got my site, <span>MaisonDesGhouls com. Peace and love, dearies.


	36. A Final Thank You from the Authoress

As I write this, there are 99 reviews for this story, and I want to take a minute to thank each and every one of you for motivating me to keep writing this. The feedback is much appreciated.

Jess, Lady Cavalier, elfinmyth, Moonlight Dutchess, Marlean, letthesongtakeflight, Rose, shadowphantomnes, Toriana, Rona4Leroux, Viviane Ravenheart, paula grandmothe, Reverend Squid, StrawberryStoleYourCookie, gravity01, none sorry, Eldunari Liduen, Squid Pire, JDLuvaSQEE, Tarja the wind witch, guest, Phantom Fan 01, Eileen Whelan, Tuppence Bee, Tsy Descartes, newborn phanatic, and Everyonedeserveslove

Thank you all so very much for your words of encouragement and for pointing out typos as you've found them.

And, of course, another big thank you to everyone who stayed with this story from beginning to end. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

It's always sort of bittersweet to come to the end of a long story, isn't it? But, hey, at least I always leave room for the possibility of a sequel or prequel or something. Who knows?

Until next time, phellow phans,  
>~Ms. SpearBourne<p> 


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